The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  Bellimar urged his horse forward, edging past Valkarr’s blue dun. Incredulity and triumph warred within his ancient eyes.

  “Swordsman,” he whispered. “Your aura––”

  “I know,” Amric mumbled, looking back at his hands. “I know.”

  In truth, he could feel the power still radiating from him like the heat from a bonfire. He closed his eyes, trying to shut it all out. He had asked for this, had invited it to emerge, had all but demanded that it fully join with him. But it was too much, too fast, and it felt like it was consuming him from the inside. The strange presence within him faltered, sensing his rejection. Its elation faded, eclipsed by rising puzzlement and concern.

  Amric heard several of the riders slide from their mounts, heard the thumps as their boots hit the ground. Tentative steps approached him where he knelt. He felt them gathering around him, but no one touched him, and nothing else broke the silence except his ragged breathing.

  Nothing, that is, until a sharp crackling began in the night air.

  Amric’s head snapped up. He felt a jarring sense of panic come from the other within him, and that brimming presence fled, winking out of existence so quickly that Amric was left reeling at its sudden absence. He expected to feel an abiding sense of relief to be free of it, and instead he felt only… empty.

  A fiery rift appeared in the air above the crest of a nearby dune. It split wide like an opening wound, and through it stepped a man in black robes. The rent closed behind him with a sizzling hiss. The stranger was tall, with a dark beard, and he held himself like a man prepared for war. His gaze swung toward them, and a humorless smile spread across the hard edges of his features. Amric could feel the man’s power even over the distance, blazing like a beacon in the night. Somehow he knew, without the slightest hint of doubt, what type of creature they were now looking upon.

  This, then, was a true Adept.

  This was the creature that struck fear in the black heart of the Nar’ath queen, the monstrosity that had nearly killed them all.

  And it might well be his own kind.

  CHAPTER 23

  Borric skimmed at the surface of consciousness from the underside. To his fevered imagination, it seemed he was being carried in the belly of some great shuddering beast as it raced over hill and valley, and he wanted to scream out in defiance at his fate. For brief moments he would propel himself upward to crest that surface and steal breath from the waking world. Each time he was rewarded by the cool night breeze whispering across his face and the barest glimpses of tall, rustling grasses waving at him as he passed over them. Then jaws of darkness would close over him once again, and he was back in the belly of the beast.

  Borric crashed to the ground, and white-hot pain lanced through his broken arm. An involuntary cry escaped through his clenched teeth as he was expelled into full consciousness at last, and he writhed onto his back to remove the weight from his crushed limb. He began to push himself upright with his uninjured arm when he looked up and his surroundings swam into focus. He froze in place.

  He had no idea how long he had been unconscious since the frenzied battle in the streets of Keldrin’s Landing, but the night was still deep and absolute and untouched by any interference from the dawn. He was lying atop a low hillock in the rolling grasslands, far from the city now. An insistent moon soaked the thick clouds above from behind with a soft, silvery glow, and if not for that muted light he would have been hard pressed to see even a hand’s breadth before him.

  As it was, however, he had no trouble at all discerning the black creature looming above him.

  Borric’s breath lodged in his throat as he braced for an attack, but the fiend stood motionless, nearly astride him, silhouetted against that argent sky. A long strip of its ragged, cloth-like wrappings trailed across his leg, and he had to fight the overwhelming urge to fling the loathsome object away from him. He realized the monster was not even looking in his direction. Instead, it faced to the south and was poised as if listening intently to some distant sound. He cast a surreptitious glance about, seeking the means to strike a blow while his captor was distracted, but his own weapons were gone and he could not see so much as a rock nearby in the darkness.

  When the creature moved, Borric started so hard that he nearly left the ground. It took a dragging step forward, its vacant ebon face still raised to the south. A chorus of dry rustling sounds on all sides brought Borric’s head whipping around, and the captain of the city guard realized with a sinking feeling that hundreds of the creatures were all around him. They were all standing taut, seemingly uncertain, just as the one above him. Scattered moans and sobs revealed that other captives had been dropped to the earth as well.

  The creatures all surged forward in unison, a sudden black wave that went from standstill to sprint in the blink of an eye. Borric’s erstwhile captor vanished from sight, swallowed by the tall grasses. The grizzled soldier had but a moment’s flicker of relief before the muffled thunder of hundreds of black feet brought him around. A steady stream of the creatures rushed by him on either side, heedless of his presence, and he twisted and dodged as best he could from his position on the ground to avoid their passage. One struck him a glancing blow as it rushed by him; it was not an attack but rather an incidental collision, but it was enough to spin him halfway around and send him sprawling. His shoulder throbbed like it had been struck with an iron bar as he rose with caution from the dirt, but the creature ran on without sparing a backward glance. Sharp cries from all around told him that others were not so fortunate in avoiding the stampede.

  It seemed an endless number of the foul creatures had flowed around him when finally it ended, and the last of the attackers passed into the night. Borric rose to unsteady feet and looked around. More dim figures were rising from the grasses, and he saw a number of people pulling others to their feet or supporting them to stand.

  Borric blew out a breath. He did not know why the creatures had so suddenly abandoned their prey, and for the moment he did not much care. He and the others had been granted a welcome reprieve, and he would make the most of it. He only hoped that the fiends would not return just as suddenly. Even if they did not, the open night held many other dangers for a straggling group of unarmed refugees. It would be a long and harrowing trek back to the city.

  The townsfolk were already drawing together into small groups. He started walking toward the nearest. He held himself straight-backed and did his best not to hobble; his men and the citizens of Keldrin’s Landing would need him to be strong. He raised a shout for members of the city guard, and several voices responded at once. He allowed himself a grim nod of satisfaction, and then he began the process of organizing the survivors, calling out directions in a clear, commanding voice.

  Amric rose to his feet, never taking his eyes from the man in black robes.

  The newcomer raised one hand over his head to point skyward, and a brilliant, fist-sized globe sprang into existence high overhead, bathing the entire area in cold, blue light. The man surveyed them all for a long moment as they squinted against the sudden illumination. Then his face darkened in apparent anger, and he started forward, striding down the dune and toward them. He walked with a measured pace, his taut posture an incongruous mix of arrogance and prowling caution.

  “I am Xenoth, Adept of the Third Circle,” he announced. “I am the Hand of the High Council of Aetheria in this matter.”

  Amric frowned. He glanced at Bellimar and raised an eyebrow, but the old man gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. It seemed the string of names and titles meant nothing to him either.

  The man drew to a halt twenty yards from them. The Sil’ath warriors moved away from Amric in wary crouches, spreading out to form a semicircle around the stranger, but he appeared not to notice. Instead, his deep-set eyes shifted in all directions beneath a dark brow as he seemed to be searching for some unseen threat.

  “Which matter?” Amric asked, and the man’s hawk eyes turned to him.

&
nbsp; “I seek the rogue Adept,” Xenoth said. “Where is he?”

  “I am not certain of whom you speak. Perhaps if you could describe this––”

  “Do not toy with me, boy,” the man snapped. “I felt the power that was employed right here, moments ago. Not even you simpletons could fail to notice a display of that magnitude. Where is he hiding?”

  Xenoth’s tilted his head to one side, regarding Amric with narrowed eyes. “Yes,” he murmured. “I think you know something.” The man’s arms hung at his sides, and his long fingers twitched. “Time to share what you know, boy.”

  Amric tensed, measuring the distance between them. His palms itched for his swords, but he wondered what good they would be against the likes of a true Adept. In his mind’s eye, he saw again the Nar’ath hive swallowed by the ravenous ground, so much like the thunderous collapse of Stronghold’s core; could he even close with Xenoth before the man brought such terrible power to bear against him and his friends? He hesitated. Perhaps he should be considering another defense entirely. But as he searched within for the mysterious, lingering presence, he found nothing.

  “Forgive the lad,” Bellimar interjected, stepping smoothly in front of Amric. “He thinks with his sword arm, more often than not.”

  “And what have we here?” Xenoth mused. A humorless smile twisted his sharp, angular face, and he raised one hand in a beckoning gesture. Bellimar stiffened with a grunt as he was lifted from the ground by some unseen force. Amric started forward, one hand reaching over his shoulder, but Bellimar stopped him with a warning look. The warrior let his hand fall, and he watched in helpless frustration as the vampire’s rigid form, suspended several feet in the air, drifted over to the black-robed Adept.

  Xenoth clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his bearded chin upward as Bellimar floated to a halt before him.

  “Fascinating,” he murmured. Then, louder, he said, “Do you know what I see before me, vampire?”

  “I can only guess,” Bellimar said through clenched teeth.

  Xenoth chuckled. “I see a corrupted being, caught on the knife’s edge between life and death, held there by a powerful enchantment. This is marvelous work, intricate and thorough. This could only have been accomplished by Adepts. Do you recall when this was done to you?”

  “As if it was yesterday,” Bellimar hissed.

  Xenoth met his eyes and gave a slow, grave nod, as if processing some sobering bit of information he found there. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “It is no secret that my kind have visited this world over the millennia, when the occasion warranted. You must have drawn considerable interest from my ancestors for them to devote such special attention to you.”

  “Your kind forced this torment upon me,” Bellimar snarled. “If not for their interference many centuries ago in the affairs of this world––in my affairs––I would have cast all the lands beneath my shadow.”

  “Ah, that would be it, then,” Xenoth said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “They were merely protecting their investment.”

  Bellimar hesitated, taken aback. “Protecting…? What investment?”

  “The spread of Unlife, if left unchecked, can eventually taint the core energy of a world, like a parasite in the water supply,” Xenoth replied. “This world had to be allowed to ripen unhindered.”

  Amric went cold at the man’s words in a way that had nothing to do with the cooling night breeze. Allow this world to ripen? For what purpose? He could not see Bellimar’s expression, since the old man was still hovering and facing away from him, but the Adept was studying that expression with piercing intensity.

  “Does it soothe your anger to know that there was little nobility in what they did?” Xenoth asked. “No, I thought not.”

  “What they did was leave me in torment for more centuries than I can now recall,” Bellimar spat in a venomous tone, “cut off from my powers and afflicted with a hunger that I could no longer satisfy. They layered crushing guilt and conscience upon my existing curse, and amplified my suffering a hundredfold in so doing.” His voice faltered and dropped to a near whisper. “And I cannot say any of it was undeserved, given my crimes.”

  Xenoth’s laugh was a harsh, pitiless thing. “Wretched, foolish creature,” he chided. “You continue to delude yourself, even after all this time. Do you not see? The Adepts dampened your connection to all magic, that much is true, and somehow they managed to do it without ending your existence. A fine, delicate touch, that. However, while you could no longer tap your sorcerous powers, such as they were, your vampiric affliction was also suppressed. But that is all. Any quaint sense of morality that emerged at that point, any penance that you believed you had to pay, was your own.”

  Amric saw Bellimar stiffen at the man’s words.

  “I see you do not fully believe me,” Xenoth said with a chuckle. “Consider another point, then. The enchantment imposed upon you should have lasted a century or so at most, and yet you say it has lasted many. Why do you think that is, vampire?”

  The Adept let the words hang there for a long moment, remorseless and still as a coiled serpent, even as Bellimar hung in the air before him.

  “You know as well as I, vampire. Your own will, your own tenuous access to Essence, is sustaining this curse––as you call it––now.”

  Bellimar gasped and hung his head, shaking it in silent denial, but Xenoth pressed on. “Can you not appreciate the irony? Some part of you is convinced that you deserve this suffering, and so you maintain it all this time, with increasing effort on your part, without even being consciously aware of how you are sabotaging yourself.”

  The old man raised his head and stared, mute and helpless, at his captor.

  “There is no need for your continued suffering, however,” Xenoth continued. “The enchantment is ages old and decaying now, even with your bolstering. No doubt you can feel its hold upon you slipping more and more as the years pass. I cannot say for certain how much longer it will last. I can free you, here and now. The scant time remaining to this world is insufficient for you to do any material damage. How would you like to be free?”

  Bellimar’s head twisted to the side, and his stricken eyes found first Amric, and then Thalya. His gaze caught on the huntress and remained there.

  “What say you, vampire?” Xenoth said softly. “The Adepts did this to you, long ago. Surely there is no guilt in letting an Adept free you now. Tell me what I wish to know, and you can be unfettered once more. You can rule the twilight days of this world. Tell me where the fugitive Adept is hiding.”

  Thalya stood rigid, staring back at the man––the monster––that she held responsible for the death of her father, and for the destruction of her entire life. She appeared to be waiting for him to utter the words that would deliver final condemnation in her eyes.

  “What say you, vampire?” Xenoth repeated. The words, so like the ones Bellimar had demanded of Amric back in the inn at Keldrin’s Landing when they had first met, struck at Amric’s core. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to distract the Adept and draw his attention away from the old man, but the words lodged in his throat and his limbs seemed frozen, unresponsive.

  Syth took a sliding step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. The strange winds emanating from his person swept the sands back from him in a spiraling halo. “Leave him alone,” he grated.

  Xenoth turned toward him, blinking as if had entirely overlooked the thief’s presence. He flicked one hand and Bellimar was cast away in an arc. The old man landed in a catlike crouch on the barren ground and stayed low with his grey robes pooled about him. His features were a frozen mask as he stared at the Adept. Xenoth held up one hand and curled it into a loose fist, and Syth’s fluttering cloak suddenly pressed tight to his rigid body as his feet left the ground. As Syth floated toward Xenoth, wide-eyed and struggling against his invisible bonds, the latter looked him up and down with a critical eye.

  “Unstable,” he remarked with a note of disapproval in his voi
ce. “The halves of your nature are in constant conflict, much like your vampire friend there. It is a wonder you survive at all, but you are calmed at the moment. Is this some subtle working of the rogue Adept, perhaps?”

  Xenoth looked to the others, and Syth flinched when his dark gaze fell upon Thalya.

  “Ah, I see,” the Adept murmured with a cold, knowing smile as his eyes lingered over the huntress. “Something much simpler, in fact.” He gestured toward the black, jointed gauntlets that Syth was wearing. “Does she know the price you pay in wearing those dreadful devices? Do you even know, yourself?”

  The muscles in Syth’s jaw clenched as he glared defiance down at the black-robed man. Xenoth gave an unfriendly chuckle. “No matter,” he said. “You know the information I truly seek, and I now know what you truly value. Do I need to be so crass as to state the obvious?”

  Thalya gave a startled yelp as her arms were pinned to her sides. She was pulled taut to her full height until the toes of her leather boots just grazed the surface of the sand beneath her. Syth gave an incoherent growl of rage and threw himself against the unseen force binding his limbs. He twisted and thrashed, but to no avail.

  With an effort of will, Amric wrenched free of his paralysis and burst into motion at last. He stepped forward, reaching for his swords, and the other Sil’ath warriors started toward Xenoth in the same instant. The black-robed man barely spared them a glance, making an impatient gesture with one hand in their direction. The ground rose before the charging warriors in a thick crescent and smashed into them, hurling them all backward and crashing over them like a wave.

  The last sounds Amric heard before weight and darkness closed over him were the frightened screams of the horses as they thundered away, deeper into the wasteland. A detached part of his mind was relieved that the beasts had not been caught in the wave, even though rounding them back up for the trip home would be no easy task. That was a matter for another time, however. At the moment, he was tired and battered, and needed just a few moments of rest before…