Adept tegw-1

by Michael Arnquist

  The Nar’ath queen peered between her crossed limbs with a devil’s grin, eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh yes, Adept,” she hissed. “We have built up some resistance to your arsenal since last we met.”

  She lunged toward him. Xenoth stabbed his hands toward the sky, and a thick wall reared from the wasteland ground before him. With a thunderous crash the Nar’ath queen hammered through it. She lashed out with a long, many-jointed limb at Xenoth. He crossed his arm in a warding gesture, and though her claws rebounded from the empty air before him, the Adept was sent flying through the night in a flutter of black robes. With a hiss of pleasure, the queen slithered after him.

  “Come on!” Syth exclaimed, bounding to his feet.

  Thalya tore her gaze from where the Nar’ath queen was leaving the pool of light, and blinked up at him. “Where?”

  “To the swordsman! He is no longer bound. This is our chance to be away from here while those monsters tear each other apart.”

  The huntress snapped her gaze back to Amric, abandoned for the moment on the sands. It seemed true; the warrior was no longer pinned flat on his back, but rather had risen to one elbow and was holding his head with his other hand. Thalya sprang to her feet and followed Syth, who was already sprinting across the sands.

  As she ran, the titanic struggle between the Nar’ath and the Adept continued. The concussive force of a distant explosion nearly lifted Thalya from her feet, and the Nar’ath queen slammed to the ground partially in the light. She rose and twisted toward her foe, lurching into sinuous motion once more. Green fire sprang into sight across her armored carapace, spreading with voracious speed. The queen shrieked her rage but otherwise paid it no heed, and the unnatural fire dwindled and died away as she slithered back into the darkness beyond. Arcing threads of light illuminated her silhouette, raining down upon her like a volley of flaming arrows, and she swatted at them as she bore down upon her prey.

  Thalya shuddered and ran on.

  Syth, moving swift as the wind that was a part of his nature, reached Amric first. The Sil’ath warriors, Valkarr and Sariel, seemed to appear from nowhere and were at his side moments later. The three of them had the swordsman on his feet by the time Thalya reached them all. Amric swayed in their grip, but his voice was level and steady when he spoke.

  “You have to find Halthak and be away from here,” he said. “The Adept means to kill you all by some scheme he has devised.”

  Valkarr and Sariel exchanged a glance, and both opened their mouths to reply, but whatever they were to say was lost beneath a sudden, keening scream by the Nar’ath queen. Sand sprayed over them in a rolling cloud as her massive form was driven back into the light. Fire streaked from the darkness and tore at her flesh, and she twisted from side to side in a futile effort to avoid each new strike. The Adept appeared, following her and pressing the attack. Even as the fire continued to flay at her in relentless strokes, the ground about her rippled and hardened into great thorns of stone that speared into her serpentine body and held her fast. The queen roared in fury and tried to wrench loose for another charge, but a towering spike shot upward to pierce her midsection, transfixing her. She quivered with the blow and slumped forward onto the spike. Only then did the rain of fire cease. The Nar’ath queen drew short, ragged breaths and lifted her fearsome head to glare hatred at her foe.

  Xenoth stalked further into the silvery light, dirtied and disheveled and panting with exertion. Perspiration ran across the hard planes of his face, drawing veins of flesh in the dust there. “Now you die, fiend,” he said in a low growl.

  “You call us monsters, Adept, and yet it is not we who have destroyed worlds to sate our appetites.” She tilted her head toward him in a hideous grin as dark green ichor seeped between her fanged teeth. “At least, not yet.” The Nar’ath queen convulsed with harsh, gurgling laughter.

  Xenoth’s jaw clenched and he shot both hands skyward. Another huge pair of spikes erupted from the ground and met at the queen’s chest, and the laughter came to an abrupt end. The giant form sagged and went still. The Adept eyed the motionless creature for a long moment before turning toward them. Thalya felt a chill play along her spine at the murderous rage writ plain upon the man’s features. Xenoth stabbed a finger at Amric.

  “You, wilding, are coming back to Aetheria with me. The Council needs to hear of this new threat, and I will bring them all that you know on the matter.”

  “That,” Amric replied, “will be a disappointment to all involved.”

  Xenoth’s eyes narrowed. “Nevertheless, before you die, you will do this service for the world that birthed you. Come here, boy!”

  He made a sharp beckoning gesture, and Amric stiffened. Torn from the grasp of his comrades, he hurtled through the air to hover before the Adept. Steel rang as the two Sil’ath warriors drew their swords and started forward, and Syth crouched and clenched his gauntleted fists, preparing to launch himself as well. Thalya raised her bow, reaching over one shoulder for her quiver.

  “No, wait!” Amric shouted, halting them in their tracks. Thalya’s hand froze with her fingers brushing the fletching of an arrow. “He will burn you to cinders, as he did Innikar!”

  “Listen to the boy,” Xenoth warned. He made a gesture, and a brilliant seam of light parted in the air behind him. The huntress caught a glimpse through the aperture of another sliver of night, elsewhere-of murky grey mists curling about tumbled masses of bleached stone. “There is no need for me to slay you all. Not when someone else is so eager to do so.”

  Something about the Adept’s dark chuckle made the hair at the nape of her neck stand on end; it was a sound laden with both malice and conviction. Then another sound caught her attention, a dry rustling at the edge of the darkness. She turned her head toward it, and her flesh turned to ice.

  Something blacker than the night was pooling there, and shadows rippled from it in waves that lapped hungrily at the meager light. A figure rose at the deepest heart of the shadow, powerful and timeless, and twin pinpoints of scarlet swung toward them. A wave of cold washed over her as that unblinking gaze settled upon her, pushing at her like a physical thing, peeling away her defenses and leaving her trembling like a child. Then it slid across her and was on to the others. The huntress heard their startled gasps and knew they felt it as well, but she could not turn away from the thing in the shadows. She realized her hand, still hovering at her quiver, was shaking so much that the arrow she touched was rattling among its fellows.

  The dark figure rose in a slow, silken movement, and the caressing darkness flowed to it and enfolded it like a mantle. The mantle of the Vampire King, the Lord of the Night.

  Bellimar the Black had returned.

  CHAPTER 25

  Thalya stared, unable to move, the very breath frozen in her throat.

  “What have you done?” she heard Amric demand.

  Xenoth turned his head a fraction but did not take his eyes from the dark figure at the center of the gathering shadows. “I promised a surprise for these lesser creatures, wilding. Look on a moment, before you and I depart, and witness what I have prepared for your companions.”

  Bellimar-or rather, the monstrosity that now stood in his place-shifted his gaze over to the Adept. Bloodless lips parted in a smile too broad by far to be human, revealing long, curving fangs beneath. “And where will you flee, Adept?” he whispered. Thalya flinched as the velvet words, vibrating with insidious power, caressed at her ears.

  Xenoth lifted his chin. “I flee from nothing and no one.”

  Bellimar made a deep inhaling sound, and the silvery light from the globe above dimmed for a moment as tendrils of shadow slithered across the sands. Xenoth flicked a glance at the tiny ball of light, and then back to the vampire. “And yet you are fearful, Adept,” Bellimar pressed. “I can taste your fear, and it is a heady thing to one so long denied his appetites.”

  “I do not fear you, fiend,” Xenoth sneered. “My concern is for Aetheria alone. The Nar’ath filth must not be allowed
to cross over into my world.”

  “By the queen’s own words, many already have. You are too late.”

  “Then I will prevent any more from crossing over.”

  “And how will you accomplish this, Adept?” Bellimar asked in a chiding tone. “The magic you expended on the wilding and the Nar’ath queen has left you more drained than you wish to show. You are weary, and you have faced but one of the Nar’ath.”

  “I have no need to defeat them all myself, fool. When I bring word of this threat to the Council, they will authorize me to activate the Gate, and this wretched world will be drained of its Essence. The Nar’ath will perish along with everything else. We can then hunt at our leisure whatever smattering of those creatures already made it through.”

  Thalya felt a new chill at the Adept’s words. This, then, was the destruction of their world he had been referencing in that cold, vindictive manner. Worse, it appeared that the night’s events had only served to accelerate the dire fate of her world. Her gaze darted between Bellimar and the Adept. They were intent upon each other, while she and the others were all but forgotten for the moment. Her fingers closed upon the shaft of the arrow and began to remove it from the quiver in a very slow, deliberate draw.

  “Come, wilding, it is time for us to go,” Xenoth said. He half-turned toward the glowing rift in the air and made a peremptory gesture that brought the suspended form of Amric drifting after him.

  Bellimar moved. So sudden and silent was the motion that the huntress blinked in momentary disorientation as her eyes struggled to follow it. She was struck by a memory from her childhood, one of many occasions when her youthful exuberance had shrugged free of the limits imposed by her father’s cautionary words. Playing in the forbidden territory of his study, she had knocked over a large inkwell on his desk, and watched in dawning horror as the jet-black ink raced in spreading rivulets over the papers scattered across its oaken surface. Bellimar’s movement was like that, quick and liquid. One moment that heart of darkness was seething at the edge of the light twenty yards away, and then it simply flowed a dozen yards closer in the span of a breath. His eyes never left the black-robed Adept, and his fangs were still bared in a terrible grin.

  Xenoth spun around with a snarl. “Do not think to pit yourself against me, vampire! I freed you from your binding so that you might enjoy a brief return to your former glory, but do not forget your place.”

  Bellimar drew back into the roiling mass of shadow until only his eyes were visible as scarlet pinpoints burning with feverish intensity. “Fear not, Adept, I will never forget what your forebears did to me. Still, they demonstrated might on a scale to dwarf your own. Perhaps the Nar’ath queen was correct, and the Adepts have grown weak and complacent over the centuries. Perhaps you are indeed but echoes of your former glory. Perhaps the time of the Adepts is nearly past.”

  Xenoth’s expression darkened further yet. “You wish to test my strength and judge for yourself?”

  A low, silken chuckle rumbled out of the darkness. “Are those the ancient ruins of Queln I see behind you?”

  “Where I travel next is of no import to you,” Xenoth snapped in response.

  “Ah, but there, I am afraid, we must disagree.” The core of shadow seemed to fold in upon itself and vanish, drawing the tendrils of darkness along with it. Thalya froze, glancing around, and Xenoth stiffened as well. Bellimar reappeared in a black cloud, this time on the other side of the ring of light, closer still to the Adept and this time nearly between him and the huntress.

  “You see,” he continued as if uninterrupted, “you have given much back to me, much that I thought never to experience again. Now you speak of depriving me of it all once more, and this time forever. I am not certain I can abide it.”

  “It is not your choice to make, creature,” Xenoth stated in a flat tone. “You cannot affect what will come, and if you cross me now I will burn you to ash. Embrace the gift I have given you, and the time remaining to you. I have even gone so far as to provide the means to slake your thirst.” With a sweeping gesture and a sardonic smile, the man indicated Thalya, Syth and the Sil’ath warriors. One of the Sil’ath hissed in anger, and Syth uttered a quiet oath under his breath.

  Bellimar glanced at them all over one shoulder. Thalya felt the weight of his burning gaze press upon her, saw him take in her upraised arm and the black arrow in her hand. They locked eyes for a split second, and her stomach plummeted as the corner of his mouth quirked upward in a knowing smirk. Then, with a deliberate gliding motion, he crossed between the huntress and the Adept, turning his back fully to her.

  “Yes,” he murmured to Xenoth. “So you have.”

  Thalya’s mouth fell open. He was all but inviting her to strike at his exposed back! Was it a trick? Bellimar was within the argent ring of light, but the shadows moved with him like a shroud, and the light itself seemed to recoil from his presence like waves from a darkened shore. Still, she could discern the outline of his figure with enough clarity to place the shaft between his shoulder blades. Was he taunting her to take the shot, intending to foil it with inhuman speed as he had before? Perhaps he was confident that the missile would not prove powerful enough to do him lasting harm, now that he had been transformed. That seemed foolish, however; the other two arrows had slain one of the Nar’ath soldiers and gravely wounded the massive queen, and all this despite the queen’s boastful words to Xenoth of her kind’s resistance to magical assaults. Why, then? Was Bellimar truly courting his own destruction?

  “Come, wilding,” Xenoth said. “It is time we left your friend to his appetites.”

  The man backed toward the rift, which had begun to shimmer and pulse at the edges. Was it her imagination, or was it slightly smaller and less bright than when it had first appeared? Amric grunted as he began to float after the Adept once more, and then his motion faltered and stopped.

  “No,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Xenoth looked up at him, raising one dark eyebrow. “Impossible,” he breathed.

  “I am not going with you.” Amric’s voice was low and growling with strain.

  The Adept’s short beard bristled as he thrust out his chin, and his eyes narrowed in concentration. Amric quivered, still hanging in the air, but did not move any closer. The heels of his boots settled a few inches closer to the ground. This time the grunt of effort belonged to Xenoth, and Amric’s slow descent was halted. Thalya felt the hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck rise as the air began to hum and crackle with energy.

  “Impossible,” Xenoth repeated.

  “I would surrender myself to prevent further death, but you mean to see my friends slain and my world destroyed regardless of my fate.” The warrior bared his teeth in a snarl. “Not while I draw breath, Adept.”

  “That is easily remedied, boy,” Xenoth snapped, his features twisted with fury. “You may have caught your breath now, but I can convince the Council without the evidence you bring. Die, wilding!” On the last words, his voice rose to a frenzied shout. His arms flung outward, sending his black robes billowing, and his hands clenched, claw-like, around sudden writhing flame.

  And then, it seemed to Thalya, everything happened at once.

  Syth left her side in a rush of wind, charging toward the Adept. Valkarr and Sariel surged forward at the same instant with a throaty battle roar, silver light glinting from their blades. As quick as they all were, however, quicker still was Bellimar the Black. He launched at Xenoth like an ebon spear, silent and lethal in flight. The Adept fell back a step with a startled curse, twisting about to face these new threats. Fire leapt from his hands to lance at Bellimar, but the vampire flowed to one side in his swirling cloak of shadow, evading the strike. More fire followed, streaking after him in the night, and he faded back from it in sinuous, graceful motions, like thick black smoke cast before a storm wind.

  A sharp gesture from the Adept sent a scything blast of air into the charging warriors, tearing them from their feet. Thalya staggered at t
he concussive force, though she was a good distance behind them by then. As she regained her balance, she felt a familiar tugging sensation through her arm and shoulder. She realized she had nocked the black arrow to her bow and drawn it back until the ridge of her hand brushed her cheek. She followed the shifting figure of Bellimar through his darting movements. The old man-the black fiend, she corrected herself-eluded streak after streak of fire, but each killing strike drew closer to him than the last.

  Amric dropped to the ground and fell to all fours. Whether Xenoth’s concentration had lapsed or the warrior had somehow broken the bonds on his own, she could not say. His chest heaved with exertion as he pushed himself to one knee and began to rise, but the power cascaded from him in shimmering waves. With an incoherent cry of rage, Xenoth wheeled to face him.

  For one fraction of a second, time stood still for the huntress. Every detail of the frenzied scene yielded itself to her with startling clarity. Syth and Valkarr struggled to their feet, dazed. Sariel was a crumpled, unmoving form upon the sallow ground beyond them. Bellimar, target of a lifetime of vengeance, crouched like a dark bird of prey with the talons of one pallid hand sunk into the sand before him. He looked at her, framed for that one perfect moment by the wickedly curved blades of the arrowhead. He flashed a smile, and the corner of one eye crinkled in a fleeting wink. And then, as before, he turned away in a deliberate motion and left himself defenseless to her.

  The ensorcelled arrow strained at the bow, humming with eagerness. The missile had grown warm to the touch, and then hot, as if losing patience at her hesitation. It bathed her cheek with heat and threatened to sear the tips of her fingers. The last of the three, the last with a chance to fulfill its destiny, it had been meant for this moment since its creation. It sang at that moment with a singular joy of purpose.

  And what of her, then? She had been waiting for this moment even longer, no less crafted and sharpened and aimed than the arrow itself. Why had she not already taken the shot? Why did her heart not thrill to the same sense of fulfillment, of fate? Why did her fingers refuse, even now, to release the black arrow to its deadly flight?