The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept (69 page)

Bellimar snorted
. “Hardly. Now that I am established, I do not know that you could unseat me, but even so, I have no interest in a contest of wills with you.”

“Then what is the meaning of this change of plans
? I thought we had no time to spare.”

“We do not,” the vampire confirmed
. “But time runs at a different pace in here, in your mind, than it does out there. And I suspect the information to be gained will prove crucial to your survival in the days to come. I think we have to take the risk.”

Amric hesitated
. A sting of anticipation mingled with icy dread coursed through him. “And what if I do not want to know?”

There was a pause, and then Bellimar said, “You may have suppressed an inner magic for the better part of your life, Amric, but I do not think you
are capable of turning away from the truth, once you know of it. Even a painful truth.”

Amric grimaced
. It was true. He had spent his life in open honesty with all he encountered, and most importantly, always with himself. Or so he had thought. Still, he had never been one to back down from what had to be done, no matter the personal cost. Could he do any less now?

“How do we proceed?” he whispered.

Bellimar made a pleased sound that contained notes of eagerness and what might have been admiration. “As I mentioned, I will not have the luxury of being gentle.”

The hooks constricted, a
nd the pain began again.

Captain Borric stormed through the courtyard in the shadow of the city’s massive southern gate. The wounded continued to straggle in, and his soldiers directed those with the most grievous injuries to a hastily constructed triage station where a handful of weary physicians had been pressed into service. Borric paused at the station and surveyed their work for a moment in silence.

One of the physicians, a slender fellow with a tapered beard, approached to check on the crude sling supporting the captain’s broken arm, but Borric shook the man off with a dismissive growl
. The grizzled soldier turned away and surveyed the courtyard.

His soldiers moved among huddled masses of the townsfolk, providing a show of strength and comfort to which they could cling
. Very few of the citizens had dispersed deeper into Keldrin’s Landing yet. Instead, they sat in a stony silence punctuated by occasional moans and muffled weeping, as they waited for Borric’s men to finish scouting ahead to confirm that the black fiends were indeed gone. Most were careful to keep their eyes on each other or on the soldiers, and avoided looking at the bodies of the dead, carelessly strewn about the courtyard like leaves scattered before a storm wind.

Borric, however, forced his gaze to linger upon each and every one
. Their deaths were on his hands, and he could do no less.

A shout
interrupted his grim reverie. One of his men burst into view from an eastern side street, pounding along the cobbled stone of the courtyard toward him.

“What news,
Gilsen?” Borric called.

“
Captain!” the man gasped as he drew near. “More trouble from the east!”

The townsfolk nearest them gasped, and a low murmur built in the courtyard as word spread like fire
through dry grass. Borric kept his eyes on the man, letting none of the dread he felt show in his expression. “What sort of trouble?” he asked in a crisp tone.

“
Sir, I climbed to the wall-walk and saw it myself,” Gilsen said, still panting.

“Saw what, soldier?”

The man drew a deep, steadying breath. “There is a strange light in the sky, far to the east, like a huge fire in the forest, but hanging high above it instead––”

“
Gilsen,” the captain interrupted gently. “We have a ravaged city full of dead and wounded, and our gates lie open to the next attack. Of what import is a distant light in the sky to us, at this moment?”

“Sir, that is not
the whole of it,” Gilsen insisted, his eyes wide. “Between that strange fire in the sky and the light of the moon, one can see a fair distance over the countryside right now, despite the dark hour.”

Borric’s breath caught in his throat
. “And?” he managed.

“The
land to the east is crawling with all manner of twisted creatures. They are coming from everywhere, like before, like the night of the attack on the city gate!”

The captain’s spine turned to ice
. He swept his gaze around the courtyard, at the weak and the wounded.
Not now
, he thought,
not now
. A bone-deep stab of pain coursed through his useless arm. “How many?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

The man did not appear to hear him
. His words continued to tumble out, one atop the other. “Maybe they are all stirred up by this fire in the forest, the way they are gathering, so many more than before––”

“
Gilsen!” the captain barked, bringing the man up short. “How many?”

Gilsen
looked at him with a haunted expression. “Sir, if I had to guess––all of them. Many times more than before, too many to count, and they are coming fast.”

Captain Borric closed his eyes
. He had read the knowledge in the young man’s face. Gilsen expected to die. The soldier felt––
knew
, with a certainty––that he was describing his own imminent death. The city was not defensible. The southern gate had been breached this night and damaged beyond their ability to repair in time. The eastern gate had been restored since the first assault, days ago, but it had only just withstood then against a smaller force than what Gilsen described was coming now. The mighty perimeter wall of the city, their beachhead against this savage and untamed land, was broken. The wild, it seemed, had decided to strike back at the hubris of civilization.

He was in charge of the city’s defense, and
yet he knew he could not stave off its destruction this night.

But he might be able to save the lives of its people.

“Sound the alarm, Gilsen,” he said. “City wide, and be quick about it.”

“Sir?”

“We will take everyone we can find to the docks, commandeer every available ship, and abandon the city. We cannot stop them from taking Keldrin’s Landing, but if we make haste, we do not have to be here when it happens.”

“But Captain,”
Gilsen objected, “there are not enough passenger ships for everyone. Most of the ships at the docks are cargo vessels, loaded with trade goods.”

“Dump it all over the side,” Borric said
. “Keep only the foodstuffs. And we will need to take what provisions we can as we flee the city, as well.”

Gilsen
gaped at him. “The lords and merchants will not like that, sir.”

The captain gave him a cold smile
. “Then I welcome them to take up the issue with the city’s new residents. I, for one, will thank the fates if we survive long enough to lament any lost profits.”

Gilsen
squared his shoulders and clapped fist to chest in a salute. His eyes crinkled at the corners, but no other sign betrayed the grin he was stifling. Borric returned the salute, and then pointed back in the direction from which the man had come.

“C
arry my orders to the others,” he said. “Have the men sound the alarms. We need to get these people moving if we hope to see the dawn. Now, soldier!”

Amric rose through layers of darkness, cut by the unforgiving shards of memory. The fragmented images assailed him, whirling and spinning, disjoint and out of order.

Scaly Sil’ath features looking down upon him, regarding him
with an eye that is skeptical but not unkind.

Fierce, flickering swordplay with his childhood fellows; a
cry of triumphant pleasure as he presses the attack, ever faster.

Watching, troubled for reasons he cannot name, as five
of his finest warriors––Innikar, Sariel, Prakseth, Varek and Garlien––depart to investigate the source of the disturbances coming from the mysterious north. The last time he would see some of them alive.

The images spun again.

Climbing a sheer face of rock, racing Valkarr to its peak.

The heads of human men and women swiveling to follow him as he str
ides through the streets of Lyden as a tall stripling. Pink, soft and civilized, they are; baffled and suspicious as they gaze upon him.

Gliding through the underbrush, long-spear in hand, moving like the wind itself as he and his fellow warriors stalk the ravening pack of greels
that had been attacking homesteads on the outskirts of Lyden.

The images
spun.

Three score swords raised to the sky by strong Sil’ath arms, hailing Amric as the tribe’s new warmaster
. The throaty roar of the tribe as he lifts his own sword in response. No other upturned face glowing with as much pride as that of the previous warmaster, save perhaps that of his son and Amric’s closest friend, Valkarr.

Clasping forearms with his sword-brother, Valkarr, sworn in blood.

The images spun.

The thunderous clash of battle against an armored
host, a remorseless foe of the Sil’ath. The terrifying and graceful dance of the battlefield. Outnumbered but victorious; the first of many such victories.

The images spun.

A cottage in the deep woods of strange and alien design. The door opening to spill sunlight inward. A shadow cast across the threshold.

The images spun and
blurred and came to a jarring halt. The chilling presence of Bellimar seeped around him once more.

“I think I lost consciousness for a time,” Amric gasped, still reeling.

“Indeed, you did,” Bellimar said. “Not for long, but much has been accomplished in that time. And I believe I have found what we seek.”

The scene swam into focus
. Or, rather, it tried to. He was looking upon the interior of the strange cottage, but his field of view shifted and flickered back and forth between two vantage points. The effect was dizzying, disorienting. There was an infant boy child in an ornate basinet; his was one of the perspectives. The other was an invisible presence circling in fretful motions above the child.

He was seeing the same scene from two different perspectives at once, he realized
: that of the child––himself, as an infant––and that of his wilding magic. He concentrated, trying to sort out the juxtaposition of the images.

The child was very young, and
was thin and weak from hunger and dehydration. As a result of one or both factors, there was a foggy quality to the child’s vantage. He leaned in listless repose against one wall of the basinet and his face was blotched red from earlier tears, but he was calm and clear-eyed now. Crying had done no good; help was not coming to his call. He was too young to take further action toward self-preservation on his own. Without help, the child was doomed.

The memory of the wilding magic was much stronger
. There was a simple, childish quality to its thoughts as well, and its frantic concern grew to a fever pitch as the child grew weaker and weaker. It had broken the spell that bound them both in extended slumber, but it knew not what action to take from there. Some primal instinct nagged at it in persistent warning. Something was wrong, and danger was coming.

The magic reached out, questing beyond the bounds of the cottage, looking for aid of any kind
. Life teemed in the surrounding forest, but it offered no succor. There was a myriad of tiny creatures, from insects to rodents, too primitive to be of help. It found a large life force, a sleek predator, but touching its mind revealed only boundless hunger and a resulting singularity of purpose, and the wilding shied away from it.

The wilding swirled in frustration and kept searching
. Then it found them, a handful of minds moving through the nearby forest with resolve. They were hard and complex, but their camaraderie toward each other was palpable. The wilding rushed to contact them, but it found no kindred magic to answer back. Instead, they felt something of its clumsy attempt at contact, and the reaction was immediate and violent, a surge of rejection, superstition and prejudice. The wilding recoiled, frustrated at the failure. It withdrew until they were calm once more, and then tried again.

Slower this time, softer, the gentlest of touches
. It focused upon the leader alone, soothing the rough edges of that creature’s distrust and fanning its curiosity. It led them to the cottage by small degrees, nudging dozens of minor impulse decisions in favor of a path that led there. It was slow, frustrating work, and the wilding magic fluttered in panic at every minute setback. At last, however, the group drew within sight of the cottage. The wilding reached deeper into its flagging strength, and, with a surge of effort, parted the veil of magic that concealed the structure from without. The group gasped in surprise, brandishing weapons and hesitating at this sudden wonder. The wilding froze. It was exhausted and spending all its remaining energy on suspending the veil. There was little it could do at that point but wait and hope.