Adept tegw-1

by Michael Arnquist

  At the fire, Halthak pushed himself to his feet and stretched. She knew in an instant that it was more than the nonchalant gesture he would have it seem. Sure enough, his craggy countenance lifted to send a tentative smile in her direction. He started toward her, picking his way over the rocks at the edge of the pool. When he reached her, he shifted from one foot to the other, his gnarled hand kneading upon the equally gnarled ironwood staff he always bore with him.

  “May I join you?” he asked.

  “Well, this rock is mine,” she responded. “But I am still saving to purchase the others.”

  He blinked at her, and she sighed. She tried again, this time simply giving an encouraging smile and gesturing for him to take a seat. He settled cross-legged next to her, cradling one end of the staff in the crook of his arm while he swirled the tapered end in the water. He did not say anything, seeming content to sit in silence.

  She cleared her throat. “So I see you grew bored of the strategy talk as well.”

  “They lost me early on,” he admitted. “I really only wanted to hear what became of the other Sil’ath. They were all wounded in their escape from Stronghold, and one of them, Varek, succumbed to his injuries shortly thereafter. They were set upon by those black creatures, and only these two were able to fight their way free. Prakseth and Garlien were taken to that strange hive we saw in the distance, and Innikar and Sariel have been recuperating and trying to get close enough to the hive to rescue them.”

  “I know,” Thalya said. “I was at the campfire as the tale was recounted.” She winced at the unintended impatience in her tone.

  “Oh,” the Half-Ork mumbled. “Of course you were. I am sorry.”

  “No,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “The need for apology is mine. I am not very good with people. I am afraid it was not among my father’s priorities when he trained me to hunt Bellimar.”

  He responded with a pinched smile, his tusks protruding at the corners of his broad mouth. “It is not a skill of mine, either. Too many see my features and reach conclusions that cannot be undone by mere words.”

  “You are certainly unlike any other Ork that I have seen,” she remarked.

  “I am not an Ork,” he said with quiet heat. Then he flashed her a sheepish look. “But I know I owe more of my appearance to that part of my lineage than to my human side, even if I have no taste for war.”

  “If you have no taste for war, I’d say that makes you uncommon as either Ork or human, Halthak. From my experience, civilization is a thin veneer at best for either race.”

  Halthak chuckled, drawing the tip of his staff through the damp sand at the water’s edge. “Perhaps you are right. Still, I would prefer to be normal like the rest of you, and not caught between two unwelcome halves.”

  Thalya burst out laughing and clapped a hand over her own mouth to stifle the sound, lest she draw unwanted attention to their perch from the denizens of the desert below. The baffled look in the Half-Ork’s eyes only made her shake with laughter all the harder.

  “Which of us normal folk would you be like, Halthak?” she said when she could safely speak again. “Syth, who is half human like yourself and yet also has a volatile pure elemental half to his nature? Perhaps Amric, born human but a Sil’ath in all but flesh? Would you trade fates with Bellimar the Damned, caught between the worlds of life and death? Even I, raised among my kind, was held apart by circumstance. Those two Sil’ath warriors over there are probably the most normal among us, and they follow a human warmaster despite their kind’s fabled aversion to other races. None of us truly belong, for one reason or another. We are all misfits. And yet here we are, striving for what is in each of our hearts. What’s more, if Amric is to be believed, this group of misfits might well save this undeserving world.”

  Halthak stared at her with wide eyes, and snapped his mouth shut after a moment.

  “I think you are better with people than you are aware, Thalya,” he said in a soft voice. He held out one knobby hand. “May I?”

  She cocked her head at him, uncertain what he meant. In truth, her own words had shaken her a bit; the revelation still resonated in her mind, plucking at deep-rooted threads of pain within her like a hand brushing at the strings of some dusty instrument and marveling to find it still in perfect tune. Distracted, she slipped her hand into his, feeling the creases and calluses of his pebbled flesh. The suffusion of warmth that followed stole her breath in a gasp.

  The Half-Ork’s earnest expression cracked and darkened before her astonished eyes. His thick lip split in several places, and various welts and bruises sprang into existence on his whiskered face. With a start, she recognized them as mirrors to her own injuries. Even as the realization dawned, the marks shrunk and vanished from his features, and in seconds they were gone as if they had never been. Thalya felt the heat subside in her own face, and her free hand rose of its own volition to explore the now unbroken skin of her face. The wounds were gone, the sting and itch no more than a memory. The blooming warmth of Halthak’s magic withdrew, and he released her hand with a gentle squeeze. Rising to his feet, he walked back to the others, leaving her sitting there with her hand on her cheek.

  Syth stood before Halthak reached the guttering campfire, and he passed the healer with a speculative look. He hopped lightly from rock to rock, and then spun to a seat beside her in a cool wash of air. He wore a boyish grin as he turned to her, seemingly prepared to share some latest bit of mischief, when suddenly he froze.

  “What are you gawking at?” she demanded, raising an eyebrow at him.

  He closed his mouth with a snap. “Your face-the wounds-” he breathed.

  She gave a snort. “You can add poet after horse trader on your list of unlikely professions.”

  Even in the faint silver light she could see the color rise to his cheeks, but it was quickly masked over by a rogue’s grin. “It took me by surprise, is all,” he said. “I meant to say that you look lovely this evening.”

  “How goes the reunion over there?” she asked in a flat tone. He took the hint to change the subject and followed her gaze toward the campfire.

  “I believe they have discussed every last detail of the terrain for a hundred miles in any direction. There is no angle of approach that will allow us near the hive unseen, however, especially with the marked increase in activity around it in recent days. They are all looking to Amric to concoct some magic scheme-” his face wrinkled as he seemed to regret his own choice of words “-that will enable a ragtag band of blades to snatch their friends from under the noses of an army of undying creatures. It seems he has a history of pulling off strategic miracles.”

  “He does seem a man for miracles at times,” Thalya mused, studying the warmaster and the Sil’ath warriors gathered around him, hanging on his every word and gesture. “There is something about him that inspires confidence. I only hope it is justified, if we are to leave this wasteland alive.”

  When she received no response, she turned her head to find Syth’s eyes upon her in the dark, his expression carefully neutral. A brittle smile spread across her features.

  “Whatever is the matter, Syth?” she asked in a sweet and dangerous tone. “Does it bother you that I might admire the swordsman?”

  “No, of course-”

  “Will you duel for my affections, then?” she pressed, anger seeping into her voice. “Or did I miss the part where you already staked your claim to me? I hope you struck a better trade than when you bought your horse earlier.”

  He looked bewildered now, taken aback at her hostility. “No, that’s not it at all. I-”

  She leaned in toward him. “Are we to rut like animals here and now?” she breathed, putting a new kind of heat into her words. “Or wait until the others are asleep?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said, raising his hands before him to fend her off. “I did not mean-I only wanted-” His shoulders slumped and he shook his head as the ever-present wind whirled about him in fitful gusts. “I am afra
id I am not very good with people.”

  She stiffened as the words stung her. Her own words to Halthak, spoken mere minutes ago, and she had proven their veracity again.

  “Since we rescued you, I have been seeking every opportunity to be near you,” he said softly. “Every time I resolve not to make a fool of myself before you, and every time I prove myself a liar.”

  She wanted to mouth a scathing reply, to insist that he did not know her, could not know her, that this pathetic act of devotion did not suit him and was but a poor mask for his baser intentions. Anything to make him leave. But the words lodged in her throat, and in the end she forced her eyes back to the fire reflected in the ripples of the pond. Syth sat a few feet away, not looking at her, seeming uncertain whether to leave or try again to explain.

  She cleared her throat at last. “They seem very happy to be together again,” she said, nodding toward Amric and the Sil’ath warriors. Between periods of intense discussion across the campfire, there were warm smiles and low laughter, and on occasion one figure would give another a playful shove in response to some jest.

  “There is sorrow for the deceased, and worry for those still lost, as well as tension for the morrow,” Syth said, appearing grateful for the change of subject. “But yes, there is an abiding joy as well. They are family, and in all honesty, it made me feel uncomfortable to be over there, an outsider among them. It gave me the opportunity to….” He trailed off and looked away.

  “To come over here and instead be attacked by a stranger?” she prompted with a wry smile. “It was unfair of me, Syth, I am sorry. But you do not know me, and I have been desired solely for my appearance before.”

  His face swung back toward her in the silvery light. “Then tell me of yourself. And let me tell you of myself. I have a sense that you grow tired of being an outsider as well.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I keep expecting the brash fellow who has been trying to impress me these past few days to make a sudden return.”

  “Oh, he is still in here, clamoring to slip his bonds,” he assured her with a sly wink. “Or perhaps he is scouring the night for some jeweled bauble he is hoping to trade for your affections. We had best talk quickly, before he returns.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I think you are better with people than you are aware, Syth.”

  “That is a kind thing to say,” he remarked, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them.

  She smiled. “A friend told me that recently, when I needed to hear it.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Through the velvet folds of the dream, grasping hands reached for him. He spun away, trying as he did so to discern their owner, but the phantom figure faded back from him like smoke before the wind. Alert for the next attack, he strove to bring the distorted milieu of the dream into focus, but focus was elusive as well; reality wavered and shuddered, but refused to converge. Angry now, he sought identity instead, and this at least came more readily. His name, he knew upon reflection, was Amric. He was warrior and warmaster, and he would not be denied. With identity came purpose, and he peeled at the intervening layers of the subconscious. Hazy at the forward fringe of his vision, the figure whirled and fled. His swords flashed into his hands, and he leapt in pursuit.

  He sped after the darting shadow, racing through a realm of mist. Obstacles reared from the fog, forcing him to hurdle and dodge, and his quarry, seeming more familiar with the terrain, drew steadily away from him. He redoubled his efforts, but still the figure dwindled in the distance. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he pressed on. Sentinel shapes pressed forth from the mist, resolving into huge trees, and sunlight pierced the grey ceiling above to speckle the matted ground before him. A thick, verdant forest coalesced about him as he ran, and its appearance tugged at his memory. It bore a striking resemblance, he realized after a moment, to the sprawling woodlands surrounding Lyden where he had spent his youth among the Sil’ath, hunting and exploring.

  The sights and smells slipped easily about him, familiar and comforting as a long-worn glove. It was like returning home, and he could see why he might have summoned these remembered environs in a dream, but the forest seemed determined to prove a hindrance to his progress. Every rock tilted beneath his boot heel, every upturned root caught at his passing foot, every wind-waved branch swayed into his path. At the same time, his quarry seemed to suffer no such difficulties, and even as he struggled past he wondered at how the land he loved could so favor another.

  The shadow melted from sight far ahead, and Amric ran on, following on pure instinct. The towering trees whipped by as he ran, and several times he would have sworn they shifted somehow to shoulder him from his path. Twisting and darting, he wound his way among them, his fury undiminished.

  He slid to a halt in a sunlit clearing, his skin prickling with warning. His eyes narrowed. He tightened his grips on the swords until the muscles of his arms stood corded in sharp relief, and he began a slow circuit of the clearing, moving with a panther’s stride. He reached his arrival point and stopped, frowning. Something was amiss here, he could feel it. He scanned the ring of trees and saw nothing out of place. His gaze fell then upon the grassy center of the clearing, and he froze. He saw his trampled path circumscribing the glade, except for one side where it veered gently inward, away from the perimeter. He had not meant to do that, and did not remember altering his path in that manner. He stalked toward it, and found himself abruptly at the edge of the clearing. He whirled and saw that he had swerved again, away from that spot.

  Setting his jaw, he took slow steps in that direction, pausing after each stride to assess his progress. Resistance rose against him, as if he walked against a river’s steady current. He concentrated upon the forest ahead, refusing to allow his eyes to slide to either side. He thought at first he was looking at a portion of the forest draped in deepest shadow, and then it seemed that it must instead be a looming, amorphous wedge of rock. His mind struggled to fill the void in his perception. He growled to himself. Damn it all, but this was his forest, in his dream, and he would not be deceived. He concentrated, reaching for what he could not see, and like a parting veil it finally yielded its secrets to him in halting stages.

  It was no natural structure, but a cottage or small house of some kind, nestled back amid the trees and sheltered in the lee of the hill behind it. He could not place the architecture, with its strange, almost delicate flowing lines, and yet somehow it struck him as oddly familiar. Revealed at last, it stood in solitude there at the edge of the glade, blending and not blending, as beautiful and out of place as a sparkling jewel lying in a field of grass. Before him was a door, hanging ajar in its graceful, high-peaked arch. A muffled noise echoed within, and Amric’s puzzlement and caution dissolved in the heat of remembered purpose. He shouldered the door aside and plunged into the cottage, one sword crossed before him and one held low and away.

  The interior of the place was no less otherworldly, and the decor baffled his eye as he tried to place its origins. It was not from any of the western nations. Pakhrian then, or perhaps Illirian? Somewhere remote, certainly, but again he had an overwhelming sense from the instant he crossed the threshold that he should know this place. He had little time to ponder the matter, however; the figure he sought was ahead, crouching over something in a shadowed alcove with its back to him.

  Amric leapt forward, raising his blades to cut down this ghostly predator before it could complete its sinister objective. The figure spun to meet him with appalling speed, those grasping hands reaching for him once more-and Amric froze in shock. The figure was wholly human, and its features were his own.

  The figure offered no resistance, and its features-his features-were settled into unfamiliar lines of sorrow and resignation. Determination flickered there, and his double took a sliding step to interpose his body before the alcove at his back, blocking Amric’s view. There was a dizzying moment as Amric was wrenched from his own body, and he saw as if through the eyes of his double. From t
here he beheld himself, a hard, frightening, vengeful man in dark leather and oiled mail, standing with wicked blades upraised to deal the killing blow. He saw his own face twisted into a mask of rage and hatred, with that mask cracked in places to reveal confusion. He reached out with open hands toward the other, not grasping or threatening at all, but rather beseeching. And hopeful, ever hopeful.

  He watched suspicion cross the battle-hardened visage, watched the raptor gaze of the warrior dart from his face to his outstretched hands, and from there to the shadowed recess behind him. He could not tell if it was the light of comprehension he saw there, or merely the split second decision in battle of the warrior born, but either way the features closed like ironbound doors and walled away the last of his hope. Hatred and fury blazed in those grey eyes that were mirrors of his own, and the swords flashed toward him.

  Amric’s eyes flared open and his fist tightened convulsively on the hilt of the sword lying at his side. He did not otherwise move or make a noise, but instead took shallow, controlled breaths as he drank in his surroundings. The chill night air of the desert washed over him in a questing breeze, and the lean trees of their elevated campsite swayed overhead. The dry whisper of rustling ferns and the slow bubbling of the spring-fed pool reached his ears, punctuated by the occasional grumbling snort from one of the horses.

  Rolling his head slightly to the side, he could see Innikar standing watch near the downward trail. The Sil’ath warrior sat cross-legged on a flat rock with one sword bared across his knees; he was motionless except for the occasional swivel of his head. He kept glancing in one direction, and Amric tilted his head to follow the stare. Bellimar stood there, perched on the outer edge of the crown of rock like some great bird of prey, cloak wrapped tightly around him as he gazed down at the wasteland far below. From below, Amric thought, he must look like just another patch of midnight against the scowling peak of rock. He gave a grim smile; he wondered who was more discomfited by the nighttime watch arrangement, Innikar at discovering that the old man never needed to sleep, or Bellimar at Amric’s insistence that an additional person always keep watch with him. The vampire had given no sign that his word-or his self-control-could not be trusted, but even a relaxed tiger was still a tiger.