The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept (14 page)

In her sewn buckskin leathers and oiled cloak, she made little noise as she climbed, bounding up the
uneven trail with supple ease. As the mouth of the cave neared, she loosened the knife in its sheath at her side, and one sun-browned hand snaked over her shoulder to draw an arrow with a wicked curve-bladed head and nock it to her bow. From afar, she had seen the riders depart the cave and enter the forest this morning, but precautions were justified given the dangerous nature of her quarry coupled with the other foul creatures crawling about the countryside.

She darted into the cave and dropped into a crouch just inside
. The sunlight did not penetrate far, and she gave her eyes time to adjust to the gloom. Once the darkness yielded its secrets to her, she rose and padded further inside. The cave was deep but empty, an ideal location to camp in hostile country. She wondered if they would revisit it on the return trip––if they returned at all. She slid the arrow back into her quiver, and knelt by the remnants of the campfire, sifting through it with the point of her knife. She crept to the back of the cave where horse dung had been swept to its farthest recesses. At last she returned to the mouth of the cave, verifying that her black mare still waited in place below, and she surveyed the broad vista that could be seen from this vantage point.

She frowned
. This was not as good a location for an ambush as she had hoped. One could see far from here, and there was little concealment on the spare hillside for a huntress and her horse. It would be difficult to approach unseen from without if they kept any kind of watch. She and Shien could hide here in the cave, striking before they were aware of her presence, but there was no guarantee that her target would be first into the cave, or even that she would have a reasonable shot before she was discovered. The cave was deep, but one could see the full extent of it once one’s eyes adjusted, or with the aid of even modest light. She could hope for them to return during the day and be sun-blinded at the mouth of the cave for precious moments, but they were unlikely to make camp until after nightfall.

Her prey was formidable enough, but she was forced to admit that his
companions appeared capable as well. They would not give her more than a few seconds of opportunity. She could nock and fire two arrows in the time it took for a man to make one running stride; it was conceivable she could slay them all, with only a touch of luck. Luck favored the prepared, however. She needed one perfect shot before they overwhelmed her.

The huntress
reached over her shoulder, and her expert fingers found the fletching of a different type of arrow in her quiver. She drew it forth and studied it, as she had done so many times. Shaft, fletching and tapered head were all obsidian black; the head itself was comprised of an ingenious mechanism ensuring that the four swept-back blades would unfold upon impact to cause additional damage upon entry and untold trauma upon extraction. This was almost incidental, however, to the primary killing power housed within the missiles, and for which she had paid a king’s ransom. She rolled the black arrow between her fingertips and the razor edges of the blades spun ravenous fire from the sunlight, as if the arrows themselves were eager to fulfill their grim mission. With an effortless twirl she slid the arrow home into the quiver once more. She had only three of that kind, and she could not afford to waste them. Anything less devastating would not be sufficient for the task.

Pressing her lips into a tight, bloodless line, she started down the trail toward Shien, skipping feather
light between rock and hard-packed earth to leave no sign of her passage. She doubtless had some time before they would emerge from the forest, after whatever task they were about, and in that time she would continue to search for the perfect place from which to strike down a fearsome foe. If nowhere else provided a greater advantage, she would return to this cave and lie in wait. She unstrung and sheathed her powerful bow, then stepped into the saddle. With one hand she stroked the mare’s glossy neck, and with the other pulled her hood up and refastened the dark veil across her face. Her eyes flashed like emeralds beneath the cowl as she scanned her surroundings once more, and then she swung her mare about and rode toward the forest’s edge.

Amric held up one hand, bringing the small column of riders to a halt. He remained thus, unmoving, as the seconds gathered into a minute, then two. His vision strained to pierce the screen of vegetation framing the sinuous trail ahead, and his hearing grasped for the incongruous sounds that had alerted him. He was about to lead his companions into the undergrowth to give a wide berth to whatever was before them, as they had done several times already this day, when he realized that something was different this time. On this occasion, even his keen senses may not have given warning early enough, as whatever it was, it had gone silent and was listening for them in return.

The warrior closed his
raised hand into a fist, and the riders behind him guided their mounts into quiet turns, taking slow steps back the way they had come. Once out of hearing, they could seek a way to circumvent the obstacle and be on their way once more. Amric pulled back on the reins, having his bay gelding back-step a few paces before he would turn it, and he whispered soothing words in the tense animal’s ear. Just then, a mischievous gust of wind blew toward them, rustling the foliage and carrying the forward scent to the horse’s flaring nostrils. The bay shuddered and gave an anxious toss of its head accompanied by a soft snort, and the undergrowth before them exploded.

Dark, wiry forms hurtled through the brush, clawing for
him. Amric muttered an oath and one of his swords sang free into his hand while he jerked on the reins with the other fist. Even had the bay been a war horse, inured to the clash of battle and a fearsome weapon in its own right, he was not an expert enough rider to manage the animal with only his knees such that he could wield both blades. And it was evident the gelding was no war horse, as it bleated a shriek and its eyes rolled in terror at the sudden assault. Amric had time to count roughly half a dozen figures of varying sizes, all somewhat humanoid in shape, and he had an impression of rags hanging in tatters over jet-black frames. Then, with blinding speed, they were upon him.

H
e sent vicious cuts into them, and he felt the force jar back through his shoulder as his blade bit into that black hide, much tougher than bare flesh. They swarmed against his horse, crooked hands clutching at its neck and mane, pulling at its flanks, clawing at the saddle and his flexing leg in its stirrup. His sword described an arcing blur, and a grasping hand spun away from its wrist. He followed with a murderous backhand slash, and the hairless black skull lolled back, attached only by the barest scrap of corrupt hide. Their very flesh seemed to catch at his weapon, and it was an effort to pull it free and to retain his grip at each stroke. He lunged forward and, his thrust propelled by thick cords of muscle, slammed his blade into the chest of a creature with such force that a foot of cold steel burst from its back. To his astonishment, the creature wrapped its hands around the blade skewering it and gave a savage twist of its torso, trying to wrench it from his grasp. Kicking his foot free of its stirrup, he placed his boot against the thing’s chest and launched it away even as he pulled savagely back on the hilt of his sword, clearing it.

The creatures surged over the swordsman’s horse, ripping at his clothing and seeking to bind his arm
. Amric glared in cold fury down into their visages as they writhed up after him. They were deepest black everywhere beneath a swaddling of cloth that hung in shreds from their frames, including even the inside of their gaping mouths, their bared teeth and where the whites of their eyes should have been. He realized with a chill that they shed no blood when struck, and had voiced neither cry of pain nor growl of anger. But for the slap of their bodies and pawing strikes, and the rasp of the rotten cloth about them parting as they scrabbled to climb over their fellows in their haste to reach him, they were utterly silent. Even the ones to whom he had dealt crippling blows were clawing at him with unfaltering vigor; only the one he had all but decapitated had fallen away and not risen again.

The bay’s legs began to buckle under the weight as the creatures sought to drag mount and rider to the ground
, and then Valkarr was there, crashing into them atop his dun gelding, his blade cleaving right and left. As his horse fell to its knees, Amric rolled from the saddle and away from the bulk of his assailants to land on his feet. His other sword flashed into the air. One of the creatures, a barrel-chested thing that resembled a hairless black version of the beast men he had seen back at the Sleeping Boar, ducked under Valkarr’s horse and wrapped its burly limbs about the animal’s legs. The dun stumbled and pitched forward, and Valkarr leapt from the saddle as he drew his second sword. The figures pursued the warriors, pawing their way over the downed horses as if they were already forgotten.

“Take the heads
!” Amric commanded. “Cut instead of stab!”

Amric hurled himself back into them
. The creatures pressed forward in a mass, heedless of their own injuries, seeking to crash over him like a wave. His swords whirled in a glittering net around him as he spun through the knot of bodies. A grasping hand and forearm parted company with the rest of its arm; a slick black skull tumbled to the sward even as its sunken pit eyes still sought its prey; a sharp kick bent an exposed knee the wrong way with a sickly crack, and its owner was propelled to the ground by the force of the blow. All the while, his flickering blades turned aside clutching hands and flailing fists. Then Amric was through the horde. He risked a look at Valkarr to see that his friend had beheaded one of his assailants and sidestepped the other’s charge. In that instant, one of the throng he had just cut through swung a wild fist that bounced from Amric’s mailed shoulder and struck him across the temple. It hit with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer, and for a moment lights burst before his eyes and his vision swam. He back-pedaled as he spun away and fended off their relentless attack.

His sword licked out and
its tip passed through an ebon throat, but the creature, unperturbed, came on. Powerful arms sought to encircle him and bind his arms, even as another came in low. As he glanced down, Amric had to blink away the blurriness from his sight to confirm the impossibility of what he was seeing. The creature whose knee he had shattered, rather than crippled, had merely bent each of its limbs at an unnatural angle and was skittering across the ground like some giant, hideous spider, driving at his legs. The warrior lashed out in lightning cuts with each sword, hacking aside a sweeping arm above and cleaving the skull of the crawler below. The latter faltered and sagged, pitching face-first onto the trail.

T
he standing creature changed tactics and grappled for one of Amric’s swords. A whistling arc from the other sword removed its head, and it toppled backward to strike the ground like a felled tree. Amric turned to see Valkarr spin around his last attacker and send it stumbling forward with a thunderous blow to the back. Pouncing after it, the Sil’ath warrior struck the head away, and the body took several more steps before crashing to the earth.

Amric whirled toward the only remaining sound of skirmish,
in the direction of Bellimar and Halthak. The old man had retreated a few yards down the trail and was still astride his panicked horse, but the Half-Ork was on foot, facing the last attacker. He swung his heavy staff in a tremendous overhand curve, striking the forehead of his assailant with a resounding crack. It was a blow that would have felled an ox, but the creature merely staggered to regain its balance and then surged forward again. It extended one hammer fist to clout Halthak in the head so hard it lifted him from his feet. As the healer crumpled, the black thing swept his limp form into its arms and raced down the trail as if the listless weight of a man meant nothing to it.

In an instant, Amric and Valkarr were bounding down the trail after it
. Bellimar wheeled his mount into its path, but the creature darted to one side, shouldering aside the frightened beast. It was momentarily slowed, however, and that was more than enough for the pursuing warriors. Each struck out at a pumping leg, and the abductor sprawled to the ground, releasing its unmoving burden. The creature sank its black fingers into the earth and wrenched about hard, twisting to face them in a blink. It lurched toward Amric, who struck away its grasping hand, and Valkarr’s downward slice sent its gaping head rolling across the trail.

The warriors spun in unison to face outward, chests heaving from the frenzied exertion, swords held low and ready against any new assailants
. The impenetrable foliage about them was still but for the idle breeze, and gave no sign of further approach. The birds above had fallen silent, but within scant seconds of the conflict’s end below, their prattle ascended to its previous volume. In moments, the only noise out of place was the panicked thrashing of one of the horses where it had plunged into the undergrowth and now sounded thoroughly dismayed by its options. Amric saw Valkarr’s blue dun stamping its hooves on the trail as shudders coursed through its flanks, and he realized it was his own mount that had left the path.

“See to Halthak,” he told Bellimar
. “We will gather and quiet the horses.”

Bellimar nodded and slid from his sway-backed mare, which was placid once more
. Valkarr collected his own mount and Halthak’s, while Amric glided into the thick of the forest on panther’s feet to locate his bay gelding. To his great relief, the animal was uninjured and not far from the trail. He did not relish the thought of being on foot as they penetrated further into the forest, or worse, when they needed to leave it. The horse had wandered into a pocket draped with sinuous vines that blocked its progress, and it was as loath to make contact with the web of vines as it was to retrace its steps. Amric sheathed his blades and approached slowly, speaking soft and soothing words to the wild-eyed beast even as he continued to eye his surroundings for new threats. It was the work of several minutes, but he managed to calm the gelding enough to lead it back to his companions.