The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  Horek groaned and shoveled the meat into his mouth, chewing noisily as he drew the back of his other hand across his bearded chin. “Not this again, lad,” he said. “Can we not share a single watch without flogging the same old discussion?”

  At the window, Sivrin’s square, clean-shaven jaw tightened. “It can’t be that old a topic,” he muttered. “The attack came only a few days ago, and there has not been another since. Do you not find it strange?”

  “A swarm of maddened, magical creatures throwing themselves at the city walls? Of course it is strange. Hell’s breath, the whole business is strange. But you’ll not find me complaining that they have not returned.”

  “They will return,” Sivrin insisted. “And mark my words, I will wet my blade in their foul flesh, if I am not stuck on watch again here at the southern gate instead of the eastern one on that night as well.”

  “The southern gate is every bit as important an assignment, lad. The next attack could come from any direction, not necessarily the east.”

  “Bah, you don’t believe that any more than I do,” Sivrin said. “The eastern gate is where the action will be. The Captain knows it as well. He has over thirty men at the eastern gate, and just a few of us here.”

  “Six of us,” Horek corrected him. “Two at the gate, two in the room below, and the two of us up here to man the portcullis. That is more than a few. You saw what those fiends did to the great wooden doors of the gate itself. Quick action on the inner portcullis may be all that keeps them out of the city streets next time.” He gestured at the huge, squat winding gear affixed to the stone floor on the other end of the room, its thick system of chains trailing upward into slots in the wall. “It is an important duty, lad, whether you enjoy it or not.”

  Sivrin heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Do not remind me, Horek. Even on the off chance an attack does come to the southern gate, we must man the device and cannot even respond directly. I am doubly cursed. Is the Captain determined to keep me from proving myself?”

  The older guard tapped the fork against his lips as he regarded the other fellow. He was supposed to be training the lad, taking him under his wing and sharing the benefit of his long years of experience. He could not look upon that earnest, boyish countenance, however, without feeling dismay at how much like children the new recruits looked to him these days. So young, and so eager to prove themselves, one and all. Sivrin devoured every old story Horek had to tell, and hungered for more. It did not seem to matter that some tales held only meager scraps of truth; the lad had ears only for glory and bravery, and seemed not to hear at all the horrors, the pain, the warnings that laced each retelling.

  Horek sighed, scratching at his chin with the tines of the fork. He kept his own beard and scalp shorn close to the skin to conceal just how much grey had shot through the sandy brown. He wondered if the youth standing before him could even sprout a whisker of his own. He dropped the utensil upon the tin plate with a clatter.

  “No attack since the first,” Horek grunted, raising the familiar argument. “Does that not suggest more a freak occurrence than a calculating mind behind it?”

  Sivrin spun away from the window, his clear blue eyes wide and grateful. “What else could draw such a mix of creatures together with a single purpose?”

  “Who knows what drives such beasts?” Horek said with a wave of one callused hand. “The Captain says all the fancy scholars would have us believe the magic deep within the land is being stirred by something, and it is having unpredictable effects on creatures more mystical in nature. I can tell from his tone that the Captain thinks they are guessing as much as we are.”

  Sivrin folded his arms across his chest, unconvinced. “Why did the creatures all come against the city, then?” he demanded. “It suggests organization, a method to it all.”

  “That much is easily explained,” Horek said with a grim laugh. “Those damned things are growing in numbers out there, overrunning the countryside. Now the livestock are gone from the farms, and doubtless there is precious little wild game remaining as well. That leaves us, lad, sitting behind our walls and lighting our torches until the city glows like a beacon in the night. We must look like a giant cattle pen to their sort. It takes no hidden strategic mind to drive animals to fill their bellies.”

  “Perhaps not, but they retreated in unison.”

  “And fought amongst themselves, coming and going.”

  “They were testing our strength,” Sivrin insisted. “Now that they have taken our measure, they will return in earnest.”

  Horek snorted. “Testing our strength? Lad, they had our measure all right. They caught us unawares, and they broke right through. They had only to press the attack and the city would have been gutted. No, they fled before the light of day, not from any fear of us. Everyone knows such creatures abhor the sun’s pure light.”

  “And who tells us this? The same scholars who a moment ago were just guessing?” Sivrin said in a scornful tone, but there was a tinge of grudging acceptance as well. Horek chuckled to himself; the same conversation each time, clothed in slightly different words.

  “These creatures did not leave themselves enough time to finish the assault, Sivrin. That suggests impulse, not forethought.”

  “Perhaps so,” the younger man admitted. He turned back to the narrow window and crossed his forearms on the ashlar blocks of the sill. “But I still say––”

  He fell silent so abruptly that Horek was caught for a long moment, waiting upon his next words. Sivrin remained frozen in place, however, peering out at the gently rolling lands south of the city wall. Horek opened his mouth to tease the lad, but in the sudden silence he heard a noise from the room below. It was a faint sound, muffled by the distance and by the thick stone construction of the guard house, but something about it struck him amiss. He hesitated, listening for the sound to repeat, but it did not. Realizing his mouth still hung open, he snapped it shut, irritated by his own foolishness. He knew the two men below, veteran soldiers both, and if they weren’t accusing each other of cheating at dice they were probably just engaged in some other meaningless argument similar to the one he and Sivrin were having.

  “What is it, lad?” he snapped, returning his attention to the younger guard.

  “I can’t be certain,” Sivrin said in a distracted near-whisper, “but I thought I saw something moving out there. Many things, actually.”

  “It’s probably just some merchant’s caravan,” Horek said with a dismissive wave. “Fool merchants have more greed than sense, to be traveling overland at this hour. Bloody vultures, anyway! I can’t decide if I more want to strangle them or admire them, as prices continue to rise and they all grow fat off the profits of us trapped here––”

  “It was not a caravan,” Sivrin interrupted. “It was in the grasses, away from the road. Besides, the trade caravans all come by the western coastal road these days. No one tries the wasteland any more. There is something skulking about out there, like a host of shadows––There! I saw it again!”

  Horek rolled his eyes and pushed to his feet, shifting his sword belt as the scabbard rattled against his chair. “What’s this, then, lad? Some kind of joke at my expense, because I have an answer for each of your foolish theories?”

  “Just get over here and look for yourself,” Sivrin urged.

  The grizzled guard heaved a sigh and crossed the room. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the younger man, craning his neck to stare out the window. The grey of evening had settled over the countryside, made thick and oppressive by the low-hanging storm clouds. The tall grasses rippled and swirled beneath fitful breezes, and the sea of motion served to baffle his vision as he squinted into the twilight gloom. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, though he had to admit that his sight was not what it had once been, for he found a blurring in the distant detail that owed as much to his eyes as to the gathering shroud without.

  “There, did you see it?” Sivrin exclaimed.

  “I saw nothing,” Ho
rek replied with a frown.

  “Keep watching, it will happen again.”

  He stared, his eyes beginning to water as he strove to keep them open for fear of missing anything. He kept expecting the youthful guard to elbow him and burst into laughter at his expense, but Sivrin’s attention was focused outside with an unwavering intensity. If this was a joke, the lad was carrying it much too far. He was about to tell him so, in fact, when he saw it.

  His gaze caught on a small ripple of the grasses within a larger one, like a riptide moving counter to the crashing waves surrounding it. At first he thought it nothing more than some strange whim of the wind, but then he saw that it was accompanied by a score of shadowy, man-like figures rising from the grass to dart toward the city and then disappear again into the thrashing sward. His breath caught in his throat.

  “What are they?” he breathed.

  “I do not know,” Sivrin said, vindication and resolve tight in his voice. “But we need to tell the Captain at once.”

  “Tell the Cap’n what?” came a raspy drawl.

  Both guards whirled, their hands flying to the hilts of their swords. Two men stood casually framed in the doorway. Horek relaxed when he saw that the attire of the newcomers matched that of himself and Sivrin, the armor and tabard of the city guard, but he frowned when he realized he did not recognize either of them. New mercenaries still arrived at Keldrin’s Landing from time to time, and he made a concerted effort to know all the experienced ones by sight. These men looked more hard-edged than most, and yet he was certain he had never met them before.

  “Who are you lads?” he asked, his gaze narrowing as he regarded them.

  “Funny you should mention the Cap’n,” the fellow in front drawled in a voice that was almost hoarse. The man had an angry scar running from forehead to jawline, just missing his left eye. He stepped into the room, glancing about with a bored expression. “Cap’n wants to see you both. We’re here to relieve you.”

  Horek hesitated. “It is not yet time for change of shift. Do you bear anything in Captain Borric’s hand? Or can the men below vouch for you?”

  The scar-faced man shrugged. “They were relieved as well. Cap’n said it’s urgent.”

  “Why would he send you?” Horek demanded. “You cannot have been with the guard long, or I would know you both. Something is amiss here.”

  “We should go, Horek,” Sivrin urged. “Maybe the Captain knows about whatever is out there, and wants to know what we have seen.”

  The newcomers exchanged a glance, and the second fellow moved into the room. He was a heavyset man with arms as thick as a blacksmith’s, and his dark, deep-set eyes darted to each of them before settling upon the plate of uneaten food upon the table.

  “He’s right, Horek,” the first man rasped. “You risk Borric’s wrath upon all our heads by tarrying overlong, and none of us want that. The Cap’n could flay the bark from a tree at twenty paces with that razor tongue of his, am I right?”

  The man’s face split into a lop-sided grin, and Horek found himself relaxing into an answering smile. Borric’s scoldings were indeed things of legend, and it was true that he wanted no part of one directed at him.

  “Hell’s breath, but that is true enough,” he said with a chuckle. “Perhaps we had better go at that, lad.” He walked toward the door, and noticed the burly second newcomer still eyeing his plate.

  “You are welcome to the food, if you’ve a mind,” Horek told him. “I’ll not have time to finish it, it seems.”

  “That’s a good fellow,” the scar-faced man said. He slipped around Horek and strode toward the window. “Before you go, however, can you show me what you saw out there? The Cap’n sure enough was saying something about it, now you mention it, and I’d like to see what all the fuss is about.”

  Sivrin turned back toward the window, chattering and pointing. Horek watched them, frowning once more. The nape of his neck prickled with apprehension; the feeling that something was terribly amiss had returned, even more urgent than before. He watched the scar-faced man looking over Sivrin’s shoulder and out the window, heard his friendly murmuring as he conversed with the excited lad. His gaze roved over the man, looking for something out of place, and fell to a bright scarlet dot on the floor by his boot heel.

  Horek froze. He found another teardrop of crimson gathered at the bottom of the man’s scabbard, and his eyes traced the rivulet of red up the length of the scabbard to where a thin line of crimson welled from the top, just below the cross-guard of the sword’s hilt. The sound he had heard earlier from below suddenly echoed in his head, the sound that might have been the end of a brief scuffle, the sound that just might have been a well-muffled cry.

  “Sivrin, on your guard!” he shouted.

  A searing pain ripped through his chest, and he looked down in shock to see a foot of gleaming steel protruding from his chest, streaked with his own blood. As he stared, gaping, the blade slithered back into his chest and was gone. The floor tilted crazily and rose to meet him with a cold, stinging slap. He lay with his check pressed against the stone, amazed at the crushing force that bound him there.

  He had landed facing the window, and thus was rewarded with a view of Sivrin’s actions. The lad reacted with remarkable speed, spinning away from the scar-faced man and batting away a dagger thrust. Sivrin drew his blade and lunged to engage the man. The scar-faced man’s bloody sword leapt from its scabbard, and steel rang on steel. Horek felt a thrill of fatherly pride at the young man’s skill; he had trained the lad well.

  His vision was momentarily obscured as the heavy tread of the second intruder––his killer––passed over his inert form. He cursed inwardly at being screened thus from the action. The man was so big that he was blocking the very light and casting the room into shadow. No, he realized as a slow chill spread throughout his limbs, that was not the case. Rather, it was his own vision growing dimmer by the second, and this time it was not his aging eyes to blame.

  He hoped the lad was giving them hell. By then, his sight had narrowed into a hazy tunnel such that all he could discern was the blurred shuffle of booted feet back and forth across the floor, punctuated by the clash of steel and pants of effort. A sudden sharp cry brought silence in its wake, and another form tumbled heavily to the floor. Wide, clear blue eyes stared back at him, unblinking amid their youthful countenance, and beads of blood trailed across Sivrin’s unwhiskered cheek.

  The action came to you at last, lad, Horek thought sadly. Was it all that you wished?

  His vision darkened even more, at once both cruel and merciful in that he could no longer see Sivrin’s face. So much like children, the new recruits. So much…

  The scar-faced man spat an oath as he ran his fingers across his bleeding brow.

  “Burn my soul, but the pup had fangs after all,” he muttered, examining his wet fingertips. “Damn near took my head off, and even so I think I’ll have another scar to show for it.”

  He glanced up to find his brooding, heavyset companion watching him with veiled eyes.

  “What are you staring at, you ugly oaf?” he snarled. “Get on with the job and foul those gears while the others and I see to the gate doors. We must return to the estate. This is no night to linger in the open.”

  The lumbering fellow’s nostrils flared, and his lip curled in a loud sniff. He sheathed the red-stained sword and reached behind his back to produce the heavy iron mallet he had tethered there. Clutching it in one huge ham fist, he started toward the winding gear, casting a lingering look at the plate of food upon the table. With a wicked grin, the scar-faced man drew his dagger and impaled the last remaining piece of meat on the tin plate, raising it quickly to his mouth. He chewed with exaggerated motions, meeting the larger man’s narrowed gaze. Then his face twisted in disgust.

  “Ugh,” he said, spitting it noisily back onto the table. “If you ever need confirmation you made the right choice in employment, there it is. Morland would not give food that bad to his livestock, le
t alone to his men.”

  He stabbed a finger at the winding mechanism. “Make certain that gear will not turn before you join us below,” he commanded. He stalked from the room, and the thunderous peal of striking iron followed him down the steep stairwell.

  He returned to the chamber below and strode through without stopping. A pair of lean, wolfish men rose to their feet and fell into step behind him. They wore the attire of the city guard as well, but not one of them spared a glance for the two guards slumped over their table with a crimson pool slowly surrounding the tumbled dice in the center.

  The trio left the guard house, turning sharply in the street to pass under the towering archway leading to the southern gate doors. The scar-faced man glanced back, scanning the empty courtyard. The citizenry tended to shun the vicinity of the gates as evening approached, and this night was no exception. Good; fewer bodies, fewer delays. Tonight’s task was best done quickly.

  Eight more of his men stood before the doors. They each gave him a tight nod, and he nodded back without comment. It took him a moment to find the pair of real gate guards, hidden behind several barrels of oil against the wall. He smiled to himself with grim satisfaction. It was good work. He likely would not have even spotted the faint crimson drag marks on the cobblestones had he not been specifically searching for them. Not that it would matter for long, if their timing was right.

  He looked up, regarding the great ironbound doors for a long moment. They were solid and imposing. Comforting. He took a deep breath and gave the signal.

  The men sprang into action, moving with ruthless efficiency. The enormous bar was lifted from the door and set aside, the doors pushed open wide. Two of the men lifted stout pails of the noxious foaming substance they had brought, and they drew forth long brushes to quickly paint the lower hinges of the doors, careful to let none of it touch their flesh. The metal began to hiss and bubble upon contact with the slimy fluid, and the men soon tossed the pails aside.