Adept tegw-1

by Michael Arnquist

  In the courtyard, the gates shuddered under a steady rain of titanic blows. Captain Borric shook his head in disbelief. Stout hardwood doors as thick as a man’s arm was long, bound by iron, and still they threatened to fracture. He ordered his men back from the gate’s outer arch and directed them to lower the portcullis recessed in the inner arch. A massive curtain of iron bars, it may not hold when the doors had not, but it was another line of defense against which the attackers would have to hurl themselves.

  As the portcullis rumbled down, a great splinter of the wood door shot into the courtyard, leaving a gaping hole through which the starry night sky beyond could be seen. A face out of nightmare filled the gap, leering through at the men behind a long muzzle that bristled with crooked fangs. The guards gasped and fell back, raising their weapons. The thing shot through the hole in the door, wriggling and undulating its way past the narrow aperture and under the descending portcullis like some great, hideous eel. Its legless mass struck the flagstones with a slap, and in a flash it was among the men. It thrashed about, its flailing bulk sending several men sprawling, and then it lunged forward like a striking snake and one of the men disappeared into its gaping maw. The hapless man’s scream was cut horribly short as the jagged jaws snapped shut, and the creature whirled and tucked its head back into its coils, gliding and flexing in some rapidly spinning complex knot formed of its own sinuous body.

  The guards rushed forward, hacking and stabbing at the creature, and it keened in pain and fury. Whipping free of the knot it had formed, it lunged in a new direction, sliding out from under the sharp blades. Another guard vanished into its gullet, and again the vile creature convulsed into its eye-baffling knot of twisting flesh. The remaining guards converged on it with a vengeance, and in moments the creature sagged quivering to the ground beneath their attack before it could claim another victim.

  High above, the spiked creatures clawed their way over the crenellations to drop among the guards like drops of ink spattering to the floor. More and more archers were forced to cast aside their bows and draw the swords at their hips to defend themselves against the slavering fiends. In turn, without the hail of missiles to suppress their advance, more and more of the bristling shadows worked their methodical way up the sheer outer surface of the wall. The men drew together into defensive islands against the encircling tide, fighting almost back to back as the creatures slunk toward them, shaking the glistening spikes on their bodies in an eerie, rattling chorus.

  At the gates, huge misshapen claws tore at the ragged edges of the holes in the doors, widening them one cracking shard of wood at a time. The smaller spiked creatures poured through the fissures, crawling down the door and along the walls of the arch, their amber gazes fixed upon the men clustered beyond the iron grating.

  Borric shouted an order, and his men fired hammer-nosed arrows into the barrels of oil, shattering the plank sides and spilling their viscous contents upon the flagstones just inside the door. Another shout, and several torches spun in unison between the bars of the portcullis. The oil ignited with a roar, and the resulting wall of flames licked hungrily skyward. A number of the spiked creatures were engulfed in the sudden blaze. They perished, shrieking and thrashing. The rest shrieked in frustration and clawed their way back through the gaps in the gateway doors, disappearing out into the night.

  Captain Borric smiled in grim satisfaction. He ordered his men into position for the next wave that would likely burst the battered doors asunder. All together they waited with eyes wide and weapons clenched in fists slicked with sweat, but the next assault never came. The towering doors of the gate no longer shuddered under dread impact from outside.

  Suspicious of the abrupt stillness, Borric tilted his head upward. The sky was beginning its slow brightening with the coming morn. He heard the faint shouts of the men high atop the wall, and he could see them waving down to him and pointing into the distance, outside the city. The enemy horde had retreated, fading back from the city as suddenly as it had come. By the time slow, pink fingers of light were reaching across the heavens, the twisted creatures had all disappeared like wraiths into the pre-dawn gloom. All that remained to give testimony to the brief, fierce struggle that had transpired were the scorched and ravaged doors of the eastern gate and the scattered bodies of the slain from both sides.

  The men of the city guard gave a weary shout of victory, but their captain did not join in the cheer. Borric looked about and saw only the vestiges of an attack by an unknown, implacable enemy turned aside more by the looming approach of day than by the efforts of his men. Keldrin’s Landing would require a great deal of preparation if it was to withstand the next such assault, and nightfall would be on the heels of the coming day all too soon.

  CHAPTER 16

  Amric drew rein before the eastern gate of Keldrin’s Landing and studied the flurry of activity taking place there beneath the damaged archway. He took in the scorched and blackened stone, the shattered remnants of the great ironbound doors, and the deep, raking marks that scored the length of the massive city wall. A veritable legion of sappers scrambled here and there under the bellowed direction of a stout, red-faced man who must have been the combat engineer in charge.

  With a practiced eye, Amric assessed the fortifications the men were constructing: rows of outward-facing spikes jutting from the ground, deadweight drops suspended in the archway, staggered trenches carved through the paving and waiting to be filled by the precisely placed barrels of oil, an archer’s wall in the courtyard beyond.

  The city had suffered a concerted attack, and was preparing for war. From the frantic pace of the sappers, they expected the next assault to come at any time. Amric noted the way the setting sun ahead painted the top of the city wall a burnished red-gold hue, and he decided they might have good reason indeed to make haste. He wheeled his bay gelding about to face the others. Valkarr and Syth looked upon the preparations with stony expressions, comprehension plain upon their features. Halthak’s eyes were wide, and he divided his attention between the gate and the road that stretched out behind them, winding like a ribbon over the rolling hills as the deepening dusk gnawed steadily at its distant end. Bellimar sat his old nag with his usual composure, but his eyes devoured every detail as they approached.

  Few words had been exchanged that morning when the party emerged from the cave with the horses and found the old man standing in the road, his cloak drawn tight around him. Amric had met the vampire’s gaze and held it for a long moment, waiting until he was certain that Bellimar read the warning and the promise contained therein. When understanding passed between them, Amric handed him the reins to his sway-backed mare and they both mounted without another word.

  The warrior had elected not to comment on the fact that Bellimar’s silver hair was now streaked with dark grey, and some of the fine wrinkles on his ancient visage had faded over the course of the night. He preferred not to dwell overlong on the implications such changes raised for how Bellimar had passed the hours alone until morning.

  Thalya sat with a stiff back upon her glossy black mare. She looked as if she had swallowed that broad-bladed hunting knife of hers sideways, an expression she had worn since Bellimar rejoined them in the morn. Her narrowed eyes never strayed far from the man who, for his part, affected not to notice her icy glares.

  “Valkarr, come with me,” Amric said. “The rest of you, wait here.”

  The two warriors rode to the gate, keeping to an unhurried pace. Guards watched every step of their approach, hands resting on weapons and arrows nocked to bows. Amric smiled grimly to himself. Gone was the blithe indifference among the city’s forces, replaced by a much more vigilant mien. Two soldiers strode out to meet them, and Amric hailed the men as they drew near.

  “This gate is closed to travelers,” shouted one of the men, a tall, bearded fellow with a barrel chest. “You and your party will have to circle around to the southern gate.”

  His companion, a lean, hawk-faced man with a scar runni
ng from forehead to chin, eyed the newcomers but said nothing.

  “What happened here?” Amric asked, nodding toward the ravaged entrance. “What force inflicted this damage?”

  The larger man glowered at him. “Does it look like we have time to trade idle chatter with every fool straying from the city?” he demanded. He waved one meaty hand in a curt gesture. “Be on your way, and let us return to our work. We have much to do yet before nightfall.”

  Amric bit back his first response. He was road-weary and caked with dirt and dried blood, and he intended to be within the city wall before the sun fell below the horizon. All the same, there was no reason to vent his temper on a man who was merely doing his duty. He took a breath and tried again.

  “We are travelers,” he said. “We have been away for almost a week to the east, into the forest and back. I would speak with your commander, to share the things we have seen on the road back to the city. It may well have some bearing on what has taken place here, and what comes next.”

  “You would have us believe that you and your motley handful here have been wandering about the countryside, day and night, and that you even ventured into that accursed forest? And somehow you all survived to make your return?” The guard boomed out a harsh laugh. “If we were swapping tales in a tavern, I’d toss a copper your way for your creativity, but I have no time for this folly just now.”

  “Very well,” Amric said. “Then do me the kindness of pointing me to your superior, who hopefully puts his skull to better use than simply keeping his helm from clattering to the ground.”

  The burly guard’s expression darkened and his beard bristled as he thrust out his jaw. “You’ll not be staying on my good side, lad, with talk like that.”

  “Imagine my dismay,” Amric replied. “Now run along.”

  The guard’s hand tightened on the sword hilt at his hip, but his eyes roved over the warriors as if seeing them for the first time, taking in their weaponry and their relaxed manner. His gaze lingered on Valkarr, who was regarding him as he would a struggling insect of no particular interest, and finally the guard relaxed his grip, drumming his fingers upon the pommel once before letting his hand fall to his side. “A signal from me,” he growled, “and those archers back there will feather you with arrows.”

  Amric shook his head. “Not in time to save you, my friend. Now, as you pointed out, you and I have nothing left to discuss. Fetch your commander, and leave your friend here. Surely not every member of the city guard is so poor at making conversation.”

  The barrel-chested guard glowered at his companion, and then at Amric. Muttering into his beard, he turned and stalked back toward the gate.

  “Do not judge him too harshly,” said the hawk-faced guard as he watched the fellow’s retreating back. “He is a good man in a scrape, and everyone’s nerves are frayed at the moment. He is right that we do not have much time.”

  “It is already forgotten,” Amric replied. “And I will not waste your commander’s time. Now, tell me all you know of the attack.”

  By the time the lean, scar-faced guard had recounted the events of the previous night, a dozen soldiers on horseback were picking their way past the fortifications and riding out from the gate. The warriors shifted their mounts to facing the approaching contingent. The man in the lead, a powerfully built fellow whose irritation showed in the firm set of his square jaw, began shouting as he drew near.

  “What in blazes is this idiocy? I do not have time for-”

  Amric interrupted in a clear, carrying voice. “The spiked creatures are called varkhuls. They attack in swarms and cannot tolerate light, and though they have not the cunning to form strategies, they are tenacious and will flow like water around any obstacle. They can scale almost any surface and their talons secrete a mild venom that induces lethargy in their victims. You will need many more torches atop the city wall if you are going to prevent them from overrunning it. Flaming arrows in their midst will also sow chaos among them, sometimes even making them turn on one another in the confusion. Once established, varkhuls multiply like mad around any food source, and you have hordes of them infesting nearly every farmhouse and other shade-providing structure between here and the heart of the forest. The forest mines alone must contain thousands of them. You may be able to blunt the attacks at night by sending forces during the day to raze every structure and burn out every cave.”

  The leader slowed his mount, his eyes narrowing as he fell silent, and his men slowed with him.

  “The huge creatures that battered down your gates are known as shamblers,” Amric continued. “They seem to be primitive elementals driven somehow mad by the twisting of the land’s magic. They draw a coating of armor about themselves from nearby rock, dirt and vegetation. You must tear that shell apart and fracture it into pieces too small to operate on their own, to force the animating spirit to abandon it and flee. The serpent creatures are greels. They usually dwell deep underground in damp caverns, and no one knows what has driven them to the surface. Just as no one knows why these disparate creatures and many others, who bear no love for each other, are growing ever stronger in numbers and attacking human outposts in a blind rage.”

  The commander drew his mount to a halt, and his men fanned out to form a line behind him.

  Amric jerked his chin toward the eastern gate. “You have a good start on fortifications. You might consider soaking the spikes or sheathing them in iron so that the burning oil does not destroy them too quickly. Also, if you mount enough torches and spikes high along the archway wall and angle your rows of ground spikes more to funnel the varkhuls toward a center path, their own numbers will inhibit them and your archers can concentrate all their fire there. The same trick might work with torches projecting from the wall crenellations to direct the focus of the varkhuls, so that your men need not spread too thin up there.”

  The commander stared at him. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Amric, a warmaster of the Sil’ath,” the warrior replied. “I and my party have just traversed the full length of the eastern road. When we left the city days ago, we saw scattered tracks around the abandoned farms. Today, I doubt you could enter any building out there without encountering them. They are moving in droves at night, spreading from the forest.”

  The commander cleared his throat, and gave a solemn nod. “I am Captain Borric, commander of the Keldrin’s Landing city guard. You bear grim news, Amric, but I thank you for every scrap of it. At least we are forewarned.” He ran an appraising look over the warriors. “When the next attack comes, I could use every available sword in defending this city. If it is gold you are after, the wealthy here may prefer to finance their own private armies, but they are finding sudden cause to contribute more generously to funding the public defense.”

  Amric laughed. “If the attack comes tonight, Captain, rest assured that we will join in the defense of the city. At the moment, however, I am after the first hot meal we have had in almost a week. And if I do not wash away all this grime soon, I may be mistaken for a shambler myself.”

  Borric chuckled and waved him away. “Be on your way then, Amric, and fare you well.”

  “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.