The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  Despite the oppressive heat of the early evening, Halthak felt a chill run down his spine.

  The old man turned to look back at him and held his gaze with unnerving intensity. His smile was gone, and he gave a slow nod to Halthak before turning and melting into the crowd.

  Halthak studied the cutthroats once more. They cast furtive glances at him, growing restless under his scrutiny. He searched for a familiar face, perhaps from the bandit camp, but did not recognize any of them. He could not fathom their interest in him, but he had a growing certainty as to its nature. They would not need to skulk about if they meant him well, and robbery was unlikely, given his poor attire and obvious lack of coin. No, they intended harm or capture, and he had no desire to ascertain which. Regardless, he doubted he would have spotted them without the commotion, so he was indebted to the strange old fellow for the warning that might have saved his life.

  Though he was only saved, he reminded himself, if he managed to evade them.

  He debated his course. He could remain in public here, staying close to highly visible store fronts. This might prevent capture, but the ebb and flow of the populace here might leave him vulnerable to a stealthy blade in the press of the crowd. He could go to the city watch, but they were nowhere to be seen at the moment and would require more to act on than his suspicions and some hard looks cast in his direction. He wanted to flee the trade district, as its welcoming atmosphere had palled of a sudden, but he was unsure how to prevent them from following, or even where he could go to be safe. He had almost exhausted the last of his meager funds, and the stable he had been sneaking into each night to sleep seemed quite exposed, all of a sudden.

  He found himself wishing again that he had been able to stay longer with the warriors Amric and Valkarr, as he had little doubt they could handle these cutthroats as easily as they had managed the bandit camp. His every interest in their mission here had been rebuffed, however, and they had insisted on parting company with him once he was safe inside the city walls. They had seemed so determined, so purposeful.

  He had no such solid plan of his own; he had traveled to this remote, dangerous place in the hopes that his healing talent could be of us in the conflict here. It seemed foolish to him now. Of what use was he? He could not even get here safely on his own. He had hoped to find his purpose, and yet he was just as adrift here as anywhere else, it seemed. And so he had bid the warriors farewell, removing at least one unnecessary burden from their path.

  Halthak shook himself. Standing there dumbstruck was doing him no good. He set off at a quick pace, staying close to the stores. If he could put enough distance between himself and his pursuers, he could duck down a side alley and lose them. If he chanced upon a city watch patrol before then, he could shadow the watch until another opportunity arose to escape.

  He peered down the alleys between shops as he passed. They were narrow and deep in shadow already, and would only get less inviting as the sun continued to set, but they were his best chance of disappearing. One yawned ahead, a dark portal just past a busy food market. He veered toward it. At the corner, he craned his neck for a look back and felt another chill. The men were shoving their way through the crowd and closing the distance with alarming speed, their gazes fixed upon him. They were far too close, almost at his heels, and entering the alley would be sheer folly now; no one would witness the attack there, and his assailants could flee its aftermath in relative safety.

  Halthak turned away from the mouth of the alley, but a figure loomed at out of the shadows. With a startled cry he swung his staff in an overhand chop at the figure’s head, but his opponent batted it aside. A powerful arm shot out and seized his robes, yanking him forward into the shadows and sending him staggering down the alley. Halthak threw a hand against the wall to keep from falling, and spun to put his back to it, raising his staff before him. He cursed his own stupidity. Of course they had more than the trio he had seen in the open, encircling him to ensure he could not escape so easily. His fists tightened on the burled ironwood staff. It was a stout weapon, but he was no fighter. He had no illusions about the odds of him fending off one skilled attacker, let alone four or more.

  The three thugs entered the alley at a run, becoming black silhouettes like the figure before him against the still bright sun of the main street. They skidded to a halt as they entered the shadows, daggers held low and ready, and for a moment all was still. Halthak had just inhaled to shout for help when the scene exploded. He heard startled oaths as the cutthroats lunged forward at the figure who had hauled him into the alley, and there followed a flurry of activity too fast for him to follow in the poor light. There was a loud grunt and one shape went down heavily. The mysterious figure cut between the other two, and another shape was propelled across the alley to slam into the wall, where it crumpled. The figure spun around the last of the thugs and then approached Halthak at an unhurried pace. Behind him, the final thug pitched face-first to the ground. The entire fight had taken only a few seconds.

  Halthak realized that his hands were shaking, and his cry for help had died in his throat. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom and the figure drew near, recognition dawned.

  “Valkarr!” he exclaimed.

  The Sil’ath halted before him. In a thick, guttural voice the lizardman said, “Come, we must join Amric.”

  Halthak swallowed and nodded. Striving to emulate Valkarr’s casual demeanor, he followed the warrior out of the alley. As he passed, he noted the cutthroats lying in spreading pools of blood, their own daggers jutting from their still forms. He shuddered. Valkarr bore not a scratch, not a stray drop of blood; he had not even drawn his own weapons in the brief scuffle.

  Back on the main street of the trade district, Valkarr received a few curious looks, but no one appeared alarmed. Like Halthak, the cutthroats had not even managed to raise a cry before the action was over. Amric emerged from the crowd and flashed Halthak a grin.

  “I am relieved you are still well, healer. It seems you will be safer in our company for a time after all, as there is a price on all our heads.” He held up a hand as Halthak’s mouth dropped open. “Save your questions for now. We must leave the streets immediately. I sent the watch patrol to the docks with a false report of a disturbance there, so that we could operate without interference here, but they will be returning soon with a host of uncomfortable questions. And those buffoons in the alley were merely the most impatient and least skilled of those who will be after us.”

  Halthak shot a panicked glance to either side. “Where can we go to be safe?” he stammered.

  “Safe? Nowhere in this city, I’m afraid,” Amric replied. Then a boyish grin spread across his features. “But until we have a better plan, I know where we can go that will make most attackers think twice.”

  Amric pushed the food around on his plate, lost in thought. Across the table, Valkarr was wolfing down his meal with typical abandon, and Halthak showed almost as much enthusiasm for his own. Amric hid a smile as he pretended not to notice the abashed glances the healer shot in his direction. It was evident that the healer did not frequently enjoy a full belly, and hunger had overwhelmed his manners on a meal he accepted with outward reluctance and inward relief. The warrior found it hard to fault him, as the Sleeping Boar served excellent food indeed.

  The Duergar Olekk emerged from the kitchens and cast a baleful eye in their direction, but made no more strenuous objection to their presence. Amric had paid their stay for the week in advance, though it had taken much of his remaining coin, and in so doing had bought a measure of the Duergar’s good will by way of providing insurance against their continued good behavior. He had gone so far as to promise Olekk that they would initiate no trouble on the premises, and if the Duergar noted the careful wording, he let it pass.

  The Traug hunched against the far wall like some massive boulder, impassive as ever, but Amric noted with some amusement that the creature’s gaze lingered most often in their direction. In return, Amric exercised the war
rior’s reflex by scanning the bark-like hide for vulnerable points. He had no quarrel with him or his employer; they were merely protecting their business against an often unruly crowd. All the same, there might come a day when he had to face that mountain of muscle and be unable to talk his way out of it. No, it would grieve him to slay the Traug, but neither could he allow those huge mitts to clasp him and reshape his spine.

  Amric turned his attention back to the matter at hand. The price on their heads was a complication he did not need. They could ignore it and be harried every step of the way, or seek out their faceless adversary and become more deeply embroiled in whatever pointless local conflict was behind it. Either way, it served only to delay them from their true objective, that of finding their missing compatriots.

  He was certain of one thing, at least: they could not remain here, as the trail was only growing colder.

  Movement caught at the corner of his eye. The tall, iron-bound front doors stood open and, along with all the windows, pulled a cooling breeze through the Sleeping Boar and drew away the hanging heat of the day. A sliver of night detached itself from the darkness outside and passed through the doorway. Amric’s fork stopped on his plate; Valkarr’s did not, though he tilted his wedge-shaped head to take in the new arrival. It was the old man in grey robes from earlier, and he favored them with a broad smile as he walked through the common room and claimed a secluded corner table.

  Halthak noticed the sudden stillness of the two warriors, and followed Amric’s stare to the silver-haired gentleman trading words with the serving girl. The old fellow followed her with his eyes as she went to the kitchens with a pretty flush and a flustered smile, and then he settled back into the shadows to boldly return the swordsman’s gaze. As before, his eyes caught the light in a strange way, casting it back at the observer like tiny pinpoints of flame.

  “That’s him!” Halthak exclaimed in a whisper. “That’s the old man I ran into in the trade district, the one who identified the cutthroats following me!”

  As he said this, the grey man touched two fingers to his forehead in a salute. Amric frowned. The timing made it appear he had somehow heard Halthak’s hushed words across the clamor of the busy room, but that had to be coincidence. In any event, the man had made his interest in them evident enough, and Amric’s own curiosity was certainly piqued. Amric exchanged a look with Valkarr, then stood and left his companions at their table. A low growl from the Traug trembled the floorboards beneath the swordsman’s feet. Gimlet eyes set deep under a heavy brow ridge tracked his every step across the room, but the creature took no other action.

  The old man waited with that expectant smile. Amric stopped before his table, and asked, “Sir, may I join you?”

  “I would be most disappointed if you did not,” the other replied. “Please, take a seat.”

  Amric did so, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table as he studied the fellow. This close, he appeared less aged, possessed of an uncommon vitality that was almost palpable. Eyes so pale they were almost white regarded him with a piercing intellect that gave no ground to the advance of the years. His expression was warm but controlled, somehow authentic and calculating in equal parts, and Amric decided at once that the man’s outward demeanor was a tool he employed with scalpel efficiency.

  “My name is Amric.”

  “And I am Bellimar,” the man returned. The name tugged at Amric’s memory, but he could not place the reference. Bellimar studied his expression, waiting. The serving girl came to their table, setting a large tankard of ale before them both.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Bellimar murmured in velvet tones, eliciting another pink blush. His eyes tracked the girl for a moment as she hastened away. Amric’s scalp prickled; had he imagined a faint thrum of power there in the man’s voice? And it did not escape his notice that the fellow had placed an order for two drinks before Amric even stood to approach.

  “Are you a sorcerer, Bellimar?” Amric demanded.

  Bellimar cocked his head to the side, but his smile did not falter. If anything, it broadened instead. “A curious opening to our conversation, friend Amric.”

  The swordsman took a deep breath. “I apologize for my poor manners, but I have little trust for things magical, and you have that air about you. My friends and I owe you a debt of gratitude for your intervention in the trade district. You seem to have taken an interest in us, and I would like to understand why.”

  Bellimar shook his head. “I took no offense. It is fair to say that magic was a field of study for many years for me, but I do not tamper with such forces any longer.”

  “And your interest in us?”

  “How could I not be interested in you, Amric? You are a fascinating riddle.”

  Amric folded his arms across his chest. “That is not an answer.”

  “True enough,” Bellimar said. “Allow me to elaborate, then.”

  He put forth one pale, slender hand and began to punctuate each point with a finger tap on the surface of the table. “You travel with a Sil’ath warrior who calls you sword-brother. Most Sil’ath can barely tolerate humans, finding them unpredictable and soft, and this one names you with a term of highest respect and affection. Moreover, he defers to you without reservation as he would his tribal warmaster, and you are an outsider of unique stature if you occupy such a position among the Sil’ath. Quite unheard of, in my recollection.”

  Bellimar paused to chuckle. “Do not look so surprised, Amric. Knowledge of the internal workings of Sil’ath society is rare, and my learning on the subject is meager since I have not lived among them as you have, but I was an avid student of history and this world’s various cultures long before you were born. And I am not finished.”

  He continued to tick off points, each a staccato click of one of his nails on the table. “You bear a price on your head and the enduring ire of a powerful nobleman for having rescued a penniless half-breed from a band of brigands. You did not take the life of that worthless bag of gas Vorenius in the bargain, showing remarkable restraint, if not sound judgment. You faced down two notorious assassins in this very room without apparent fear, and have now taken the Half-Ork under your protection, despite his obvious inherent ability and your personal aversion to all things magical. You show uncommon tact and wit for a simple swordsman, and you gather enigmas as you go.”

  Amric raised an eyebrow. “So you would have me believe that I am irresistible to a scholar such as yourself because I use words on occasion before swinging my blade, or because I keep company that would be unusual in any other city? I have seen races in Keldrin’s Landing that I cannot even identify. The diversity gathered here and the tales I hear of nameless things outside these city walls make one wandering swordsman seem mundane in the extreme.”

  Bellimar laughed and gave the table a resounding slap. “By the gods, but I like you, swordsman!” He made a sweeping gesture, as if brushing aside all his previous points. “You are correct. Everything I have just listed has only deepened my initial interest, which is owed to something else entirely.”

  “And that is?”

  Bellimar leaned back and regarded him over steepled fingers. “You have no aura.”

  Amric blinked, and waited for elaboration.

  Bellimar studied him for a long moment before nodding. “I wondered if you knew, if it was somehow done intentionally, but I believe you. Every living creature has an aura, varying greatly in magnitude depending on many factors. It is the breath of primal essence intrinsic to the individual, marking one’s life force and affinity to magical forces. Call it the spark of life, if you will.”

  “Then there is no great mystery,” Amric said. “I do not have, and do not wish for, any aptitude for magic.”

  “Your dislike for magic has little relevance as to its affinity for you, swordsman,” Bellimar said, leaning forward again. “But there is more to it than that. As I said, every living creature has an aura. It can be faint or potent, but it is always present. For that matter, eve
ry unliving creature will have an aura as well, though it would be imbued or converted rather than inborn.”

  “Unliving? You mean the animated dead, ghosts and wights and the like?”

  “And the like,” Bellimar agreed. “Do you think me a foolish old man, telling fireside tales when I speak of such creatures? Or that they haunt only the dusty crypts of ancient kings, as heroic fables would have us believe?”

  Amric shook his head, expression grim. “I might have disregarded your words mere months ago, and been skeptical of the tales of the things lurking in the forests here, but I can testify that the same taint has begun to spread much further south as well. No, I do not doubt that Keldrin’s Landing makes its plea for help in earnest.”

  “Good. I find it tiresome penetrating that kind of ignorance. And many of the ranks of Unlife are drawn irresistibly to strong auras as a source of sustenance, so they are relevant to our topic in more ways than one.”

  “We have wandered from that topic, Bellimar. You were telling of your interest in me?”

  “So I was,” Bellimar said. “As I was saying, every living creature has an aura, and its character, intensity and magnitude define that creature. Or from another perspective, that creature’s defining attributes are reflected in its aura. Whichever stance you take, there is a strong and undeniable connection. Beyond even affinity for magical energies, many attributes are reflected in one’s aura, such as charisma, magnetism, leadership, drive and empathy; other creatures respond to these attributes and to that intrinsic energy out of reflex.”

  “And you can see these auras around creatures?” Amric asked.

  “Yes, I can. Of the many fields of research my long years have afforded me, you could say that the study of auras is my greatest enduring passion. It requires concentration and training to see them, akin to engaging another sense, a separate kind of sight, if you will. But this is not a unique skill, as countless practitioners of the arts can do the same.”