The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  Beyond the fiery edges of the aperture, he could see Queln.

  Mist curled everywhere amid great tumbled ruins, flowing over, between and through. A roaring sound came to him, vast and unfathomable like the thunder of the ocean, and light of every hue danced within the mists. The air crackled with power, raising the hair on his arms and the nape of his neck as stood there. His wilding magic prowled and snarled with impatience in the recesses of his mind.

  Amric did not look around at the others, but he could feel their stares heavy upon him. He reached over his shoulders and drew forth both swords. Power suffused him, continuing to build, and at his touch mystical flame sprang across the blades. The others flinched, and he clenched his jaw as he watched the heatless flame writhe along the naked steel.

  Some knowledge, once gained, could never be forgotten. Some actions, once taken, could never be undone. That it was necessary did little to lessen the pain.

  He plunged forward and through the portal.

  CHAPTER 27

  Amric stepped through the portal and onto a forest-backed hill that overlooked a scene out of madness. Black clouds gathered overhead in dense folds, colliding and joining together to form a titanic spiral that spanned the sky and turned with a slow, ponderous grace. A mountainous funnel began at the center of that great wheel and reached for the earth below. Lightning clawed at the clouds and wound its way down the dark vortex, and all of it was permeated by a sullen, volcanic red glow.

  On the ground, the mist stirred and flowed in response, though whether it fled the storm or rushed to meet it, Amric could not tell. It moved in a way that seemed at once both erratic and yet somehow purposeful, stalking and then swift, like the prowling of some starving beast. The shattered ruins of Queln, the skeletal remains of a civilization long forgotten, pushed their way through the vapors. Whatever forces had torn the ancient city apart had done so with vehemence; some of the towering structures had been worn and humbled at the merciless hand of time, but many appeared to have been blasted apart, leaving naught to mark their passing but jagged boulders of marble strewn about.

  Dark and twisted shapes moved through the ruins, skulking behind the veil of mist. They shambled in fitful bursts, emitting occasional shrieks and keening cries. Those inhuman calls were laced with pain, fury and madness, and they were answered by more inhuman throats in the surrounding forest.

  The air itself trembled with a continuous roar of magic, and Amric’s knees buckled as everything hit him at once. A sense of desperation and agony threatened to engulf him, as if the land itself recognized its imminent demise and was laboring for each remaining breath.

  The others stepped up beside Amric. He straightened, ignoring their sharp looks of concern. He released the Way he was holding open, allowing it to seal with a hiss, and a mental weight lifted from him.

  The initial assault against his perceptions had been overwhelming, but he steeled himself against it. With the sensory onslaught came a rush of vitality, filling him until his breath caught and his nerves burned. Magic flooded this place, just as it had in the core of Stronghold near the Essence Fount. Where that phenomenon had been ruptured and raw, however, the flow of energy here was controlled, directed, bound. Amric concentrated and found he could sense the invisible currents converging from every direction. They ran like vast rivers through the ground beneath his feet and the sky above, rushing all around and past him.

  They ran directly to the Essence Gate.

  He knew it the instant he saw it. A massive arch of stone, it sat atop a high platform directly beneath the tip of the dark vortex. Broad, weather-worn steps climbed out of the mist to reach it. The Gate was wrought with sigils that burned with hellish light, and its interior churned and shone in a dazzling sea of fire. It could have been the ravenous maw of the gods, vengeful and all-consuming, and all of the magical energies were drawn to and into that luminous arch.

  Amric’s fists clenched upon the hilts of his swords until his hands shook. That thing was feeding upon their world, holding it helpless as it killed, visiting untold suffering upon the land and its creatures. It was time to end this.

  “Well,” Syth remarked, “I guess we know where we need to go.” He cast a dubious eye at the intervening ground between them and the platform, where misshapen figures skulked in the mists. “How do we plan to not die until we get there?”

  Amric frowned in thought. He had planned to keep Xenoth occupied while the others destroyed the Essence Gate, but even at this distance he could see the massive scale of it. Their weapons would have little effect on the huge ring of stone. But perhaps there would be some other means of disabling it until the tools required to destroy it could be brought to bear. He turned to the others, driving the point of one flaming sword into the ground to free one of his hands.

  “We will go in this way,” he said, indicating their path. “We stay together at first. I will do what I can to shield us from the Adept’s initial attacks, and I will draw his fire from there. Once Xenoth is focused upon me, slip away into the ruins. Stay in pairs, stay out of sight, and watch each other’s backs. Valkarr and Sariel, circle around and look for an opening to strike at Xenoth, or at least distract him enough to give me an opening. Syth and Halthak, make for that raised platform and find a way to disable the Gate.”

  Amric received a chorus of grim nods in response. He faced Valkarr. “Maintain cover until you can strike with certainty. Remember Innikar, my friend. Xenoth does not give second chances.”

  “Would you like to show me which end of the sword to hold as well?” Valkarr inquired with a fierce grin, though his eyes were hard and sober as they clasped forearms. “For those who have fallen,” he said in the Sil’ath tongue, his tone solemn.

  “For those who remain,” Amric answered in the same language, completing an old Sil’ath exchange for luck in battle. He clasped forearms with each of the others as well, meeting their eyes, hoping that his gratitude and his pride in their courage was easily read there. He retrieved his sword from where it stood jutting from the ground, and they strode together down the hill and into the swirling fog.

  They moved in loose formation with Amric on point, gliding through a ghostly landscape of mist and stone. Crags of shattered marble loomed over them, and piercing cries echoed all around, but nothing approached. The few creatures they passed near enough to see were too consumed with their own torment to pay any mind to the group’s passage; they snarled and shrieked and clawed at themselves, and it was a simple matter to skirt wide around them in the murk.

  Amric raised frequent glances toward the Gate as they moved. He did not do so in order to maintain their heading––far from it, in fact. The construct was a persistent, thundering presence tugging at his senses, and he could have walked a direct path to it with his eyes closed. He kept a wary eye out for the Adept, to be sure, but it was more than that as well. Each time he looked upon the terrible majesty of the Essence Gate, it seemed he could see more of the forces at play around it. At first he saw faint currents curling toward and into it that he took for the capricious movements of the mists. They continued to sharpen with study, however, until they became phantasmal patterns of flowing light.

  A hushed query revealed that none of the others could see the patterns, though asking the question earned him cool, appraising looks in return. He found himself mesmerized by the streams of light, and the more he concentrated, the more of them he could see. It was like another view onto reality, hidden behind––or woven into––the primary façade, as if he had somehow opened a second pair of eyes capable of seeing past the surface. Something clicked in his mind, and he realized he was looking upon the movement of primal energies, the raw forces of life and magic, flowing from every direction as they were drawn to and consumed by the Gate. Whether it was instinct or another gift of Bellimar’s knowledge, he did not know, but it felt oddly natural to look upon the world this way.

  He should have felt a twinge of his old revulsion, he knew, to see the pervasi
ve threads of magic. They were everywhere, tangled and intricate, unavoidable. They connected every living thing in a latticework of energy, from the smallest spark of life in a fluttering insect or a coarse blade of grass to the more pronounced auras of his companions. He had once thought to hide from magic, to spurn its touch in all capacities by strict choice, or to tolerate only brief exposure when required. He could see now how absurd those intentions had been. Magic was everywhere, surrounding them, inside them, inherent, inextricable. Bellimar had tried to tell him so when they first met, though he had not been ready to hear it. That force could be used for great destruction and evil, as he had seen, but at the same time it was the essence of life at its purest. Looking upon its beauty and complexity with newfound sight, it was hard to see it as anything other than a gift. He could scarcely bear to look away from it, even for a moment.

  And so it was that he had an instant of warning when the first attack came.

  Tendrils of power came snaking through the mist toward them. Silent and invisible, they did not register to his mundane sight, but to his magical sight they stood out in stark relief and writhed with violent purpose. They darted toward him, grasping, and he struck out with both swords on pure reflex. The naked steel blazed and parted the tendrils of light as it would flesh, and Amric felt a surge of savage joy. He ducked under a sweeping hook and slashed through the coil behind it, and the last of them blackened and faded.

  He glanced back to find the others in wary crouches, looking around with expressions of bewilderment. They could not see such concealed attacks, and so it would be on his shoulders to protect them.

  Mocking laughter drifted to them. “Crude, but effective,” Xenoth called. “You are full of surprises, wilding.”

  The white mist billowed and swirled, ebbing back from either side of their path like waves pulling at the shore. A huge tunnel opened in the fog, giving them a clear line of sight all the way to the foot of the stairs which led to the raised platform upon which the Gate rested. Only one thing obstructed their path, a lone figure in black robes with arms spread to part the gathering mists.

  “There is no need for this, Adept,” Amric shouted. “No need for further destruction and death. You have no place in this world, and we want no part of yours. Shut down the Gate and leave here forever.”

  “You are wrong on all counts, boy,” Xenoth sneered in response. “You may want nothing of my world, but it is still the world that birthed you. For it to live on, it requires all that this one has to give. As for my place, as you put it––” Flame erupted from his hands and curled up his arms. “My place is wherever I choose to set foot.”

  Xenoth threw his hands forward and sent gouts of fire hurtling toward Amric.

  Borric paced the docks, and with each heavy stride he lowered a booted heel with a sharp report. He bellowed orders to his tired men as he moved, punctuating his imperatives with the occasional cuff or shove to spur greater haste. Hard at work alongside the city guard were a number of men from the private forces of the lords and merchants. Some had seen the necessity of his plan, and had contributed their manpower toward the salvation of all.

  He scowled out at the mouth of the harbor, where flecks of lantern light bobbed with the waves, marking the staggered departure of over a dozen ships. Others had looked only to their own needs.

  He raked his gaze over the throngs of people crowding the docks and trailing away into the city. More arrived every moment, laden with their belongings. Borric shook his head. Piles of such possessions were mounting near the docks, where the people were forced to discard them before boarding the ships. Only food, people, and the clothes on their backs would be permitted; there was no room for anything else. Even so, the entire operation was moving far too slow for his tastes. At any moment, he expected to see a swarm of fang and claw overtake the back ranks of the crowd, and the screams to begin. Borric swallowed, blinking rapidly to clear the sudden, vivid vision.

  A shout rang out nearby, and Borric flinched, half-turning toward the sound. It was just the captain of the cargo ship, however, declaring it full. Borric looked it over and then nodded to the men on the docks. With efficient motions, they cast the lines free and sent the ship lumbering into the bay.

  Borric counted the remaining ships for the hundredth time that night, weighing them against the straggling multitudes of people. He pursed his lips. He was no seaman, but by his rough estimations it would be a close thing indeed. Even purged of their trade goods as well as anything else that could be sacrificed for space or weight, many of the vessels were already riding quite low in the water, overburdened with human cargo.

  And the stream of people continued, disgorged from the city at a maddening pace.

  Borric turned on his heel and thundered down the docks, raising his voice to a bellow again.

  Amric ducked behind a crumbled wall as a spray of rock showered down around him. He leaned against the cool, pitted stone, panting for breath. Xenoth’s scornful laughter followed him.

  “Your friends have deserted you, wilding. What did you expect of such insects?”

  Amric remained silent. The Adept’s initial assault had buffeted him like a thunderstorm, but he had held his ground long enough to cover the retreat of his companions. That short, furious exchange had almost been his undoing, however. Xenoth attacked and changed tactics with such speed that one strike had barely registered before the next was worming past his defenses from another direction. Only a combination of his instinctual wilding magic and the knowledge from Bellimar had kept those killing forces at bay for the seconds he needed to escape.

  He looked down. One of his swords still burned bright with flame. The other had become a blackened, useless twist of metal, destroyed in deflecting some strange volley of sticky, clinging fire the Adept had thrown at him. He cast it aside.

  “Come now, boy!” Xenoth shouted, a note of impatience souring his tone. “We have already proven that you are no match for me. Let us dispense with the games and finish this. You may have lived like a beast, but you can still die like a man.”

  Amric ground his teeth. It was evident that he could not fight a defensive battle here. The Adept was a master at this form of combat, while he was only beginning to understand the fundamentals involved. Well, if the game could not be won, it was time to change the rules.

  He drew in power, took a deep breath, and lunged out from behind the wall. The Adept was stalking toward him, and his hard features lit with triumph. Amric thrust out his free hand, fingers splayed, and focused his will. Ribbons of light writhed toward the man, and his foe’s expression turned to one of concentration as he warded off the attack with rapid motions.

  “Now where did you learn that, boy?” Xenoth demanded, his brow furrowing. “I do not––”

  And Amric hit him with the other attack. With the frontal assault to keep the Adept busy, he had sent a hammer-blow of energy to the side, around and through the ruins, looping back to approach from an unexpected direction. It struck Xenoth with a detonation of such force that Amric felt it like a blow to his chest, and it threw the black-robed man sideways. Xenoth lurched to his feet, livid with fury. He had opened his mouth to voice some new threat when Amric pulled a thick marble column down onto him.

  It fell with a resounding crash, and a cloud of dust rose to mingle with the mist as tons of cold rock settled to the turf. The warrior watched, holding his breath. Had he managed to catch the Adept by surprise?

  Sudden instinct flared in warning, and he dove to the side. A lance of flame sizzled through the space he had been only moments before, coming from behind just as his own attack had done. With an ear-splitting report, the center of the column exploded, sending jagged shards of marble the size of a man hurtling outward. Xenoth rose from the wreckage with teeth bared in rage and murder in his eyes. He took a step toward Amric, then staggered to the side and put his hand to the rock for support.

  Good, Amric thought with grim satisfaction. The man was not invincible after all.


  The moment of weakness was fleeting, however. Xenoth straightened and glared his hatred. “For that, boy, I will make your death a slow and painful one.”

  The man spread his arms like black wings, his hands formed into claws. In an instant, Amric was fighting for his life. The attacks came from every direction, everything from towering walls of force to needle-sharp talons of fire. They rained down upon him, circled him, drove at him from all sides. They slammed at him, staggered him, bloodied him. He slapped some away with warding gestures, writhed between darts of death with cat-like grace, and sent his sword whistling through ribbons of fire to send them crumbling into ash. His blade, wreathed in flame, wove a glittering net around him, and his movements became a blur. He gave himself over to pure instinct, lost himself in the dance of battle, and gave his wilding magic free reign. The presence within answered his call, roaring to the surface with primal fury, and the two became one as never before. Amric lashed out with both steel and magic, faster than the eye could follow, in total unison of body and mind.

  The moment seemed at once endless, poised forever on the edge of a razor, and yet over all too soon. The attacks ceased, and Amric spun to one knee at the center of a blackened crater. He held his sword held back and swept outward, and each breath seared in his chest.

  Xenoth stood frozen, his eyes wide. He raised his hands again and hesitated for only the briefest instant, but it was enough. Amric burst into motion, darting from view and disappearing into the ruins. He staggered and clutched his side as he ran through the mists, but he wore a grim smile. They had each drawn blood in this first clash, and he was still standing. Moreover, he had seen something new and unexpected in the Adept’s expression, there in those closing seconds.