The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  A brief search for the horses proved fruitless. The animals had either fled too far to hear their calls, or had fallen prey to the denizens of the wastes. Syth and Thalya had better luck locating Halthak, at least. The healer had been hurled away in the chaos and partially buried under a mound of sand. He staggered back with the support of the others, and his own bruises and abrasions were scarcely healed before he began fretting over everyone else.

  The remains of Innikar were so blackened and distorted as to be unrecognizable, little more than warped blades and bits of metal in a pile of ash and cinder. The swords were in no condition to return to his family back home, so they buried them with him, there in the wasteland. It was a futile gesture, given the ephemeral landscape of rolling sands all about them, but one they performed by unspoken agreement. They had no suitable means by which to carry the remains anywhere else, and Sil’ath tradition held that their heroes should lie where they fell in battle, so that they could continue the fight from the spirit world. Amric pictured the irrepressible Innikar shrugging off an inconvenience like death as if it were some ill-fitting cloak, drawing his swords once more with the joy of battle alight upon his lean features. He smiled to himself. The Sil’ath were ever a stubborn, pragmatic people, and their beliefs were a firm reflection of that. The smile faded. The Sil’ath. His people.

  The strange, silvery orb Xenoth had left hanging above them had begun to wane by the time they gathered to leave. Its light was but a glimmer when they crested the first rise. It was gone by the next.

  They trekked through darkness that was hemmed in below by the pale sands of the wastes, and above by the thick blanket of clouds laying siege to the moon. Bellimar kept his distance from the party as they marched. Amric forbade him from ranging too far ahead for fear that encountering the weakened captives from the hive while alone would prove too great a temptation. Even so, the vampire vanished for uncomfortable stretches of time before reappearing in some new and startling direction. Several times it seemed a great winged shape, blacker than the night, passed over them in a wake of bitter cold. More than once, the wilding presence within Amric roared to the surface in response to something out there that he could not see. Each time it would gibber and bristle at the unseen threat, making his entire body tingle with tension, and then it would slowly subside. More than once, he caught Bellimar’s penetrating red eyes, out in the darkness, following their progress with an inhuman hunger.

  In the earlier ride from the crown of rock to the hive, they had taken a circuitous route to conceal their approach from the Nar’ath exodus. As they trudged the reverse route, they made no such effort. As a result, the return trip took almost the same time, despite being on foot. When the rocky crag finally reared up before them, stark against the subdued luminance of the clouded sky, Bellimar was already crouched at its base.

  “I cannot go up there,” he called as they approached. “Blood has been spilled.”

  Amric pulled up short, facing him. The hair rose at the back of his neck as he caught the rough, throaty character to the old man’s voice. “What have you done, Bellimar?” he demanded.

  Bellimar laughed, and there was little humanity in the cold sound. His chin was tucked low, and beneath eyes that blazed with hunger was a mouthful of fangs gaping wide enough to engulf a man’s head. “I? I have done nothing, warrior.” He spat the last with a note of contempt, eyes narrowing to slits. “You can be assured that if I had done it, I would not have wasted their precious fluids like that. It is cooling, spent, the life in it already departed. Useless to me. It fans my hunger, but it is the blood of the living that truly calls to me like a siren’s song.”

  The black mass roiled and seethed and seemed to lean toward him by some small degree. Amric tensed. His wilding magic screamed a warning, but it was unnecessary; he recognized a predator about to rush when he saw it. With an effort, he kept his hands from twitching toward his swords.

  “Is this to be it, then?” he asked in a low voice. “Is Bellimar the man lost entirely?”

  Bellimar froze, then the glowing eyes dimmed a bit and he pulled back into his mantle of shadow. “Not yet, warrior,” he said, and some of the guttural growl was gone. “Not yet, but all too soon.”

  Valkarr drew abreast of Amric, with gleaming steel bared in both fists. He did not remove his gaze from Bellimar as he spoke to Amric, “Perhaps the men fought amongst themselves.”

  “Or were set upon by some other horror out here,” Halthak put in, glancing about.

  “Perhaps,” Amric agreed. “I see only the tracks of the men at the base of the path, over our own and those of the horses. Whatever violence occurred up there, they either brought it with them, or it found another way up.”

  “Or it leaves no tracks,” Thalya offered, casting a pointed look at Bellimar.

  “Whatever the case, it is time we found out,” Amric said.

  Bellimar retreated into the darkness and agreed to remain below until called. Amric went first, swords drawn. He felt the weight of the vampire’s gaze pressing at his back until the curve of the path took him out of sight. He reached the peak and stepped into the broad crown of rock, dropping into a low crouch. Valkarr and Sariel joined him an instant later.

  All was quiet. Too quiet, he decided. The pool of water was undisturbed, an unbroken mirror nestled at one end. The thin copse of trees stood untouched by any breeze, and six of the seven men were sheltered there in various states of repose. Two sat with their backs to the boles of trees, heads bowed, and the other four were lying on their sides with their heads resting on their arms. Of the seventh, there was no sign. Amric studied the scene for a long moment. They were too still. No rustle of breath, no twitch to discourage a persistent insect, no slight stirring to find a more comfortable position on the ground. Not a single chest rose and fell to indicate life. These men were all dead.

  Amric signaled to the others and started forward. Valkarr followed on his heels. Sariel dove into the underbrush and Thalya leapt up to the lip of rock and began to walk the perimeter in a half-crouch with bow drawn. Halthak put his back to the rock, clutching his staff before him, and Syth remained there with him, his jointed metal gauntlets curled into fists as he swept his gaze over the area.

  The two warriors crept near the motionless bodies of the men. Valkarr stretched out one arm, and with the flat of his blade, lifted the bearded chin of one of the men sitting upright against a tree. Half-lidded eyes stared forward, unseeing, and blood seeped from a slit throat.

  “No talon did this,” Valkarr commented in a whisper in the Sil’ath language. “Only a keen steel edge cuts so clean.”

  Amric nodded, glancing around. Each of the other men bore similar marks, a single stab to the heart or a single slice to the jugular, and each was sitting or lying in a congealing pool of blood. “Efficient,” he remarked in the same tongue. “Each death by a single stroke, no bruising or defensive wounds. Even their expressions are serene. There is no indication these men had any time to fight back.”

  Valkarr peered at the slack features of one of the men, then turned to study another. “Do these men look familiar to you?”

  “Morland’s men,” Amric said with a frown. “I thought I recognized them earlier tonight in the hive, from our visit to that bastard’s estate. They are––or were––members of his personal guard.”

  “Something is not right,” Valkarr said, lifting his head to scan around. “Where is the seventh? Could one man have done all this? A trained assassin, perhaps, who took them all in their sleep?”

  Amric shook his head; he had no answer. An uneasy sensation was crawling between his shoulder blades. His friend was correct, something was not right here. He had the persistent feeling that they were being watched. The wilding magic stirred within him.

  Thalya gave a low whistle, and the warriors rose to their feet. The huntress was standing at the far edge of the crag, across the shallow pool from them. She motioned downward. “I found the last one,” she called. “He is dr
aped over the rock here. I think he is dead.”

  She began to kneel, and sudden instinct screamed a warning to Amric. He shouted, “Thalya, no!”

  The attacks were swift as lightning, their timing without flaw. Amric had taken half a step when a cloud of smoke erupted behind him. A slight gust of warmth caressed at his skin, and a sulfurous smell burned at his nostrils. Steel sang in the crisp night air, and Amric twisted with the reflexive speed only a Sil’ath warrior could manage. A talon of fire raked along his ribs, parting the links of his mail shirt like so much paper. Amric caught a fleeting glimpse of pale skin, an unruly white shock of hair, and delicate features twisted in a primal mixture of murder and ecstasy. He continued his spin, lashing out with his sword, and Valkarr stepped into a lunge of his own from a few paces away. There was a soft thump in the air as the assassin vanished in another swirl of smoke, and the warriors’ blades crossed in the space he had been.

  Thalya started to straighten at Amric’s shout and then went rigid, her back arching as she was lifted to her toes. Blood burst from her chest, and she looked down, eyes wide with disbelief. A thorn of steel sprouted there, glistening red. The blade was withdrawn with a jerk, eliciting a strangled gasp from her, and she collapsed to the rock. The second Elvar assassin stood behind her amid a veil of smoke. He watched her fall, a feral grin alight on his narrow face.

  “Brother, I am most displeased,” he purred. “Its vulgar bellow spoiled my clean kill.”

  His twin appeared next to him in a dark cloud. He cocked his head at the crumpled form of Thalya. “No matter, brother. It is a long way back to the city. We can claim them all one by one, at our leisure.” He raised his voice, calling to Amric. “Our lord Morland sends his regards. He wishes it to know that it dies tonight by his decree. By now the city has fallen, but it must understand that our lord is most thorough and cannot permit word of his arrangement with the Nar’ath to spread.”

  “Our lord is wise,” the other agreed. “Witness his justified caution in that it has not only survived the Nar’ath, but sought to steal away his gift to them.”

  “Morland, that snake!” Amric snarled. “So he is the traitor the Nar’ath queen mentioned. He betrayed the city and his own men, his own kind, to those monsters!”

  Just then, a strangled sound resolved into an incoherent scream of loss and rage. Syth rushed toward the assassins with a wild-eyed look of madness, and the violent winds whirling around him flattened the foliage and propelled him along in great bounds.

  “Syth, wait!” Amric cried, starting forward. “We must attack together, or they will kill us all, one at a time!”

  Syth gave no indication he had heard the warrior. He leapt to the ridge of rock and raced along it at a breakneck pace, heedless of any danger to himself. The Elvaren roared with laughter, their faces alight with their own madness.

  “Come ahead to your death, fool,” one said, beckoning with a long, slender blade. “Now or later, it is all the same. You cannot hide from us, for we will be waiting in the next shadow you fail to check. We are creatures of the night––”

  A wave of blackness rose over the edge. It flowed like ink over the rock and sent sinuous tendrils into the basin. The night air thickened with sudden, biting cold. A figure coalesced there, spreading a cloak of writhing shadows. Its eyes burned scarlet and fierce, furious and vengeful. Every living creature present knew it at once on some instinctual level; this was death incarnate, merciless and ravenous beyond measure. The Lord of the Night turned the full weight of his gaze upon the assassins, and the rumbling hiss that issued forth bore not the slightest trace of humanity.

  The Elvaren gaped, their eyes bulging, and they both vanished in a flash of smoke.

  Syth rushed to Thalya’s side and cradled her in his arms. Halthak splashed through the shallows of the small pool at a run, and threw his staff aside as he reached her. The Sil’ath warriors arrived an instant later, watching every direction for the return of the assassins.

  “She lives,” Halthak moaned as he placed his hands on her. “But there is so much damage, and she is so weak….” He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating, and Amric’s senses tingled as the healer’s magic came into play. Syth cast frantic looks from Thalya to Halthak. Her breathing was quick and shallow, coming in tiny, bubbling gasps. The flow of blood from her chest slowed as the healer worked, but did not stop, and the wound shrank somewhat but remained open.

  The warrior ground his teeth in helpless fury. On sudden impulse, he closed his eyes and focused on sending energy to the healer, offering it gently for his own use. The wilding magic flared in response, and he heard Halthak gasp. The hum of the healing magic against Amric’s senses intensified.

  A minute went by, then two. At long last the Half-Ork sagged back with a groan, and Amric’s eyes snapped open. When Halthak looked up, his expression was tormented.

  “No,” Syth whispered.

  “I am so sorry,” Halthak said. “The strike was true, she is too far gone. There is not enough of her own spark left in her to fan back into a flame. I can die with her, but I cannot save her. I have given her a few more moments, but it is all I can do.”

  Syth swallowed and nodded, and Halthak fell back against the rock, putting his head in his hands. Valkarr and Sariel each gripped him on the shoulders, their faces stony as they stared down at the huntress.

  Syth continued to hold her, rocking slowly in place. Thalya drew in a ragged breath, and her eyes fluttered open. They glistened like emeralds as she looked up at him. “Syth,” she breathed.

  He opened his mouth to reply, but his voice cracked and the words were lost. Thalya gave a wan smile.

  “I wish we had more time, love,” she murmured. “I wish we had met sooner. Much… could have been different.”

  “I would change nothing, but for the end,” Syth replied.

  She smiled again, this time wider. Blood seeped between her teeth. “You see? You are better with people than you are aware, Syth.”

  He made a choking sound and nodded.

  “I need to speak with Bellimar now, love. Something… left unfinished.”

  Bellimar, cloaked in shadow a short distance away, lifted his head at the words. Syth threw a scathing look at the vampire, but Thalya whispered something to him, and he gave a reluctant nod. He kissed her forehead and stepped back. Bellimar hesitated, looking at the others, and then glided forward. As he did so, the darkness writhing about him seemed to retract, to diminish somewhat, and the slender figure that knelt at her side could almost be mistaken for the silver-haired old man he had been. The bones in his face jutted a bit too sharply, however, and the fever-bright flames of hunger in his eyes were unmistakable. There was a tremble to his movements as he took her hand, and Amric could see that he was at the frayed edge of his control as he leaned down close to her.

  Her drooping eyelids flared open at his touch, and her green eyes sought his face. They stared at each other in silence, and then her blood-flecked lips moved. “Do not prove me wrong, Bellimar.”

  A few droplets of blood sprayed to his cheek at her words, and Bellimar flinched as if burned. The huntress held his gaze for a moment longer, and then her labored breath left her in a long sigh. Her hand went limp in his grasp, and she was gone. Syth uttered a moan of anguish, but Bellimar remained poised over her, motionless, his eyes searching her still features. He extended his other hand and closed her staring eyes. He started to withdraw his hand, hesitated, and then drew one slender finger along her cheek and gently tweaked her chin.

  “Release her, monster,” Syth grated, his voice quavering. “I will not have her defiled by your foul touch. She would never consent to become a black fiend like you.”

  Bellimar did not glance at him, but he laid her hand upon the stone and stood back. Shadow gathered to him once more like ebon sands flowing into an abyss. “Calm yourself, thief,” he said. “Even if I wished it, she is beyond my influence now.”

  Syth growled something at him and knelt again by
Thalya’s side.

  “Wilding.”

  Amric turned at the single word, spoken with iron determination. He faced the old man, who had fixed upon him with an unwavering gaze.

  “Come,” Bellimar said. “We have much to do, you and I, and precious little time left to do it.”

  “What is your plan?” the warrior asked.

  “To do the impossible.” Bellimar’s eyes were like windows into a blazing forge as he shifted them to the fallen huntress. “And to fulfill her last request.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “Are you out of your mind?” Syth demanded.

  Amric did not reply. He wanted to smile at the irony of the man’s words, but he thought it would merely agitate him further, so he refrained. He sat cross-legged on the ground, hands resting upon his knees. The dawn was still hours away, but the gibbous moon found its way at last through the thinning cloud cover to spill light down upon them. It gave the wasteland a bleak, otherworldly cast, and left Amric feeling like a wayward ghost intruding upon a world in which he was no longer welcome.

  Caught between worlds, he mused, as ever.

  Valkarr and Sariel stood at Amric’s shoulders, flanking him. They appeared relaxed, but he knew better. There was a tension to their stances that was only obvious to one who knew them well. Taut as bowstrings, he thought with a sad smile as he thought of Thalya. So many lost already. Of the warriors he and Valkarr had set out to find, only Sariel now remained. And countless more would perish if this did not work. Some distance behind him, the grating sound of rock against rock informed him that Halthak was still fretting at the crude cairn they had built, as far to one end of the crag as had been possible. It had taken precious time to dig even a shallow grave for the bodies and cover them with rocks, and to rake sand over the spilt blood as well, but it had seemed a judicious precaution.