chapter 19
The black-robed man sat, cross-legged on a high parapet, with eyes closed and mind far away. Wan sunlight spilled across his upturned face, giving his dark beard a tinge of gold, but he did not feel its meager warmth. At his back, the colossal fortress hummed with the power that coursed beneath it like a winter river swelling against its ceiling of ice, but he took no note of this either. If not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest and the occasional furrowing of his brow, he could have been one with the stone.
The clouds crawled above him as time passed, and the sun fell slowly in the sky as if it sought a better look at his still features.
At last his eyes fluttered open as he returned to himself, and his face settled once more into hard lines. He drew a deep breath and spat a sulfurous string of oaths. Slamming a palm to the stone, he pushed himself to his feet. He looked out over the walled courtyards surrounding the fortress, and past there to the spreading mantle of forest. He stood rigid, fists clenched, and then his shoulders slumped.
Almost three days he had spent in this wretched place that reeked of musk and death, and the trail was cold. The marks of his quarry’s power were in ample evidence at the core of the fortress, but the lack of guile and restraint employed there was in sharp contrast to the thoroughness of the vanishing afterward. It was a maddening mystery; the cunning and skill required to evade one with his considerable tracking skills bespoke an astonishing discipline, a long practice at the art of concealment that did not match the hasty, brutish splash of power used inside.
Worse, no matter how far he extended his senses, he could detect no further signs of his quarry exercising that power, to any degree. What Adept could go so long without embracing so much as a hint of his potential on this pathetic world? He could be a veritable god among the primitives here.
He sighed and looked down, digging through a pouch at his belt. He brought forth a small, dense loaf of travel bread and a sheaf of dried meat, eyed them both for a moment, and then returned them to the pouch and tucked it beneath his robes. He had hoped to be done with this mission by now, and his supplies were running low. Much longer, and he would have to seek food among the indigenous races here. He frowned in distaste. The fortress still held considerable stores of clean water, for which he was grateful, but what food he had found was either spoiled or revolting in nature. The stench of the lifeless place had grown to such an extent that he dreaded venturing within to scavenge for stores.
For the hundredth time that day, he considered simply striking out to the west in the hopes of following a more mundane trail. He was skilled in such methods, but he would be forced to exercise his power repeatedly to fend off the creatures being driven mad by the draw of magic. Such outbursts could mask the subtle and remote magical signs of his true prey. Worse, they would eventually alert his quarry to his own presence.
He shook his head in frustration. For a mad, impulsive moment he considered returning to Queln and activating the Essence Gate in full. He had the knowledge, as an agent of the Council in a remote and hostile land. No amount of clever hiding would save his quarry from the consequences. Let him go to ground on a sundered world, he thought with savage satisfaction. It beckoned invitingly as the solution to his quandary, but at the same time he knew he would be a fool to do it. It would rather undermine his efforts at redemption, he decided with a regretful sigh, if in the process he committed such an unsanctioned act. In fact, tampering with the Gate without the Council’s express orders would make their fury at his previous blunder seem like nothing more than a frown of disapproval; his life would almost certainly be forfeit.
No, as much as he was galled by the delay, patience was still the key. And until his quarry gave himself away by using his power, he was just another grain of sand lost in a desert.
A sudden itch tickled at the fringe of his awareness. He stiffened and immediately squeezed his eyes shut as he reached out with his senses to seek its source. He found only echoes of a single tantalizing pulse of power, fading before he could ascertain more than a general direction: west, as he had surmised, and a bit south as well. Somewhere in the wasteland, then. He looked at the heavy clouds thickening the sky in that direction, and he fought down the wild urge to rip open a Way and leap closer to the one he sought. The pulse had not lasted long enough for him to get a location with any accuracy, however, and so if another signal followed it would likely force him to open yet another Way in rapid succession. If the awaited confrontation was near at last, it would be rash to tire himself without need.
He dropped to his seat upon the high parapet and waited, his eyes closed and his mind searching far away. Patience was the key.
Amric stalked down the crude stairs, and the gloom of the cavern closed over him like dark waters over a sinking stone. Bellimar followed a few paces behind him, a cold, soundless presence at his back. More twisting stairways ran like veins down the interior wall of the great chamber. On three of them, the other Sil’ath warriors mirrored his progress.
He did not glance up; he had to trust that Thalya, Syth and Halthak were following his orders and staying out of sight as well as possible. Given the way the creature’s narrowed gaze remained riveted upon his every step, it seemed unlikely she was even aware yet of their presence up top. Amric smiled in grim satisfaction. If things became chaotic down in the chamber, Thalya’s skill with the bow could prove useful from her high perch. By her own admission, her normal arrows had proven ineffective when she was attacked by the black creatures, but she still had two of her ensorcelled arrows remaining. Halthak and Syth were charged with watching the surrounding dunes for an ambush, and with protecting the huntress if they came to grips with returning black creatures. Syth had uttered weak protestations at having to remain behind, but from the sidelong glances he stole at Thalya, it was evident that he was relieved to have an excuse to remain with her.
The plan was a simple one. The fiend had fixated upon Amric, and evidently she thought he was something he was not. Perhaps she attributed to him the strange tremor that had shaken the hive and given away their presence. Regardless, whatever manner of creature an Adept was and whatever had caused her to label him as one, it seemed a sufficient threat to force a grudging degree of fear or respect from her. He knew an opening when he saw it. He would keep her attention focused upon him, then, long enough for the others to secure the release of the prisoners. What would transpire after that was anyone’s guess, and might well depend on how convincing he was in his assumed role.
It was a dangerous game he was playing, he knew. He had to be convincing as something about which he had not a shred of information, and somehow manage to get both the prisoners and his warriors out of here alive. For a brief window of opportunity, however, the monstrosity was without her army of minions and had even dismissed those closest to her. At any other time it would require a much larger force to have a hope of successfully assaulting this place. He glanced at the prisoners, huddled and sprawled in the shadows. For these men, and perhaps for his own missing warriors as well, it had to be now. He tried not to think about the fact that he had not caught a glimpse of a Sil’ath among their numbers. The light was poor, and hope was not yet lost.
His gaze drifted to the nondescript shapes submerged in the viscous pools of green fluid, and he dragged it back to the creature at the center of the chamber.
Concentrate on the task at hand, he chided himself. Free the living before thinking to avenge the dead.
“Name yourself, Adept,” the towering creature called up to him in a grating tone. “We would know our enemy.”
It was confirmation that she viewed an Adept as an enemy, at least. His mind raced. Would she recognize a false name? And who else did she include in we?
“Names hold power, foul one,” he shouted back. “You may continue to call me Adept for now.”
She hissed and shifted in her stand, but gave no sign that she found his response suspect.
“What of you?” he asked. “By what name would you be known?”
“Nar’ath queens have no name,” she spat. “Only purpose.”
Nar’ath? He frowned at the term, even as he heard a soft intake of breath from Bellimar behind him. He glanced back at the old man.
“Nar’ath means ‘of the sands’,” Bellimar whispered. “Just as Sil’ath means ‘of the scales’, very loosely translated. Both names come from a tongue long lost to this world, and it implies these creatures have chosen a name from another time, or were given it very long ago.” He stared at the creature below. “It implies they may not be new to this world after all.”
Despite the low pitch of his voice, the Nar’ath queen overheard him.
“This fleshling speaks true,” she said with an odd mingling of anger and pride in her voice. “But of course the Adept knows this already, for it was his kind that named us. A dismissive, scornful name it was meant to be, given in arrogance. But still we have kept it all this time, and we have made it our own. We have grown strong, and you will not dismiss us again.”
The queen watched him with an air of expectancy, but he did not know what reply to make and so made none rather than risk giving himself away. She hissed in dissatisfaction, grasping with long black claws at the stone formed about her. Amric heard a grating noise from within that enclosure, and he wondered at the size and shape of the concealed portion of her form. From the harsh, heavy nature of the sounds, he guessed that there was more of her hidden than showing.
He reached the bottom step and his boot heel sank slightly into the firm sand of the cavern floor. He strode toward her, his manner confident and unhurried, hoping to emulate the being that was fearsome enough to give her pause. Without glancing aside, he was aware of the others stealing like shadows around the edge of the room. The queen paid them no heed, as if they were utterly beneath her notice. Instead she continued to track him and him alone, her alien features an expressionless mask, her eyes a simmering green.
He stopped at the outer edge of one of the pools and looked down. The waters gave off a soft, pulsing glow that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere. It was impossible to tell the depth of the pool, as it was packed near to overflowing with tightly wrapped bodies. Some unseen current tugged at those cocooned forms, rippling the top of the pool as the pods rolled and churned beneath the surface. The sickly green glow peeked through gaps in the moving clusters, cupping them with spectral, possessive fingers of light. It was a disorienting display, a sinister and graceful dance in slow motion.
Amric’s stomach turned as he realized that not all the motion came from the current. Some of the shapes were writhing and straining against their bonds. He fought the urge to draw his sword and cut the folds of cloth-like material. Grim instinct warned him that he was not witnessing natural creatures struggling to survive, but rather the awakening of new fiends, subservient to the queen.
“Cunning Adept,” the Nar’ath queen murmured, breaking the brief silence. “Have you come to make me pay for my overconfidence in sending forth nearly all of my forces?”
Amric noted her change in reference from plural to individual; another oddity that would hopefully become clear soon.
“Perhaps,” Amric replied with a noncommittal shrug. He began a slow circuit of the chamber, circling her from outside the pools. “For now, I am more interested in discussion. For example, I wonder at why you would leave yourself so exposed. What goal could be worth the risk to one such as you?”
“What risk was there?” she sneered. “The fleshlings of this world are weak, and they wield weak magics as well. They are divided and fearful, huddled in their walled city, oblivious to the wracking cries of the land. Oblivious to our presence and to the true threat against their world as well. There is nothing we need fear from these trifling creatures.”
“But now I am here,” Amric said.
“Yes,” the queen said softly, hunching low in her cone of rock. “Now you are here. But we did not know this when I sent my forces against the city. How did you learn of our presence?”
He ignored her question because he had no answer to give, hoping that she would interpret the omission as a mortal foe refusing to divulge such information. “So you will hurl your minions against the city to the north? You said yourself it was no threat to you, and yet you are willing to lose many, battering against their high walls.” He decided to venture a guess. “You may lose more numbers than you gain, and then where will you be?”
“Arrogant Adept!” she snapped with indignant rage. “Think you we know nothing of tactics? Our numbers will swell tonight, for the city will be yielded up, ripe for the harvest, by one of its own.”
Amric paused. “One of its own?”
Her laugh was lilting and harsh. “Indeed, Adept. We have not faced your kind in centuries, but we remember well your tactics with the lesser races. One of the primitives encountered our strength, and sought to curry favor for himself by making an alliance with us, claiming to be a man of some power among his people. He believed our assurances that we have no wish to rule this world, as well as our promises that he would be made supreme among his kind once we have what we need. As if there will be anyone or anything left to rule.” She gave a dark, ugly chuckle. “He knows so much of what is happening, and yet understands so little.”
Amric felt a chill at the casual certainty of her words, but he did not allow any interruption in his casual stride as he continued to make a wide circle around her. “This ally of yours sounds too gullible to be a man of influence here,” he scoffed. “By what name is this pretender known?”
“I think not,” The Nar’ath queen snarled, her distended jaw twitching and flaring slightly open to reveal a glimpse of the human face beneath, contorted in anger. “I have use for him yet, and I will not have you interfering in our deception. The Adepts, above all, know well how credulous these creatures are, but do not think to treat us the same way.”
“Naturally not,” he said in a dry tone.
“Do not mock us, Adept!” she hissed. There was a sharp report as the edge of the stone rim encasing her cracked beneath her clenched claws. He stopped walking and turned to face her. At the corners of his vision, he saw her hulking minions appear at the mouths of several tunnels, shouldering their way partially from the shadows. Their dull, hateful eyes fixed upon him, their ponderous heads swaying back and forth in response to their queen’s agitation. Without taking his own eyes from the queen, Amric mentally marked the positions of his warriors and waited for her to give the command to attack. His hands tingled, aching to reach for his swords, but he held himself utterly motionless. For a long, tense moment they stood thus, gazes locked together at the core of a brittle silence, and then the queen relaxed and settled back with a speculative look. Her minions shuffled back with a sulking reluctance and were swallowed once more by the dark maws of the tunnels.
Releasing a pent breath, he resumed his slow stroll around the chamber. He noted that the Sil’ath warriors had stolen around the cavern perimeter and reached the captives. Valkarr knelt among them in hushed discussion while Innikar and Sariel stood over them. It would be several minutes before his unhurried pace brought him near enough to them to exchange quiet words. It took Amric long seconds to locate Bellimar, as he did not want to crane his neck back and forth searching for him and thus risk drawing undue attention to his position. He finally discerned the vampire standing at the edge of a pool further around the room. He stood tall and straight with his cloak folded tightly about him, little more than a sliver of night in the cavern’s gloom. His attention appeared to be absorbed by something in the glowing waters.
“The city will fall this night,” the Nar’ath queen assured him. Though she had to be aware of the presence of the others within the chamber, she still seemed to pay them no heed whatsoever.
“You sound very certain of that.”
“Even now my forces gather there,” she said. “When night falls, the city will bare itself to us, and by morning’s light my minions will have harvested them all.”
He glanced upward through the opening far above and onto the tortured sky. The oppressive blanket of clouds had walled off the sun at last, and the light that poured down now into the chamber was a dim grey shroud. He wondered how long remained until nightfall. Under normal circumstances there would be several hours of daylight remaining, but if this cloud cover rolled over Keldrin’s Landing as well, a serviceable darkness––and the accompanying assault––might come all the sooner.
“Why bother with the city at all?” he asked. “If, as you say, conquering this world is truly not your goal.”
She gave a long and sibilant hiss, but he could not decipher whether the sound indicated pleasure or annoyance. “We are after bigger game, as you must realize by now. But we must build our forces, and maneuver them into proper position.”
“Again you speak of ‘we’, and yet all I see here is you.”
She uttered a keening, triumphant shriek that he realized was a laugh. “Then you have only begun to look, arrogant one. My sisters and I have grown in strength slowly over the centuries, recovering in secret from the blow you dealt us so long ago. And had you not activated the Gate and begun to draw upon this world, it might have taken many more centuries before we were ready to strike at yours. Now our hives fill the wasteland, draining the land dry of life, and we build our forces to hurl against you. The time for hiding and preparing is almost done.”
He paused, reeling with the implications of her words. He quailed at the thought of many more monstrosities like this one, each building its own army of black creatures, their sinister hives pockmarking the land like a spreading disease. They were stealing the beings of this world and converting them into their own blasphemous parody of life, and growing stronger all the time. Very soon, if it had not come to pass already, they would need fear nothing on this world. The Nar’ath queen leaned forward, her long black claws rasping against the stone, as she mistook his partial comprehension for something more.
“Did you truly think that you had eradicated our kind? You, whose avarice granted our existence in the first place? We are a growing cancer on the ley lines that feed your world. We know your addiction. You cannot survive without it, and yet the more you draw upon it, the stronger we continue to grow.”
Her tone grew more heated with every word, and he could see her huge form tensing and swelling.
“We have adapted, Adept, evolved over these many centuries that we might more perfectly hunt your race. In your arrogance and greed, you have given us the means to strike at you in more ways than you even realize.”
“Calm yourself, foul one,” he said quickly, striving for a dismissive tone. “You are not ready to pit yourself against the might of the Adepts.”
She gave a deep, grating chuckle, still poised on the verge of action. “I hear ‘we’, and yet see only you,” she said, twisting his own words and casting them back at him.
He threw back his head and boomed a laugh that echoed eerily around the vast chamber, warping the sound until he did not recognize it as his own. “And did you truly think that I came alone?”
It had the desired effect. The Nar’ath queen hesitated, eyes widening to dart suspiciously around the cavern. Her malevolent gaze slid over the Sil’ath warriors, whose position he was nearing now, and dismissed them as inconsequential. She tilted her head upward and froze. Thalya stood upon the rim of the opening high above, silhouetted against the silver sky, her bow drawn and leveled at the creature. Amric hoped she had nocked one of her ensorcelled arrows, as he had a strong suspicion that nothing less would suffice. Another head peered over the edge; Syth’s, by the shape of it, though the height was too great to pick out his features.
The queen’s ridged skull swung back toward him. “That is no Adept. You bring the fleshlings of this world against me? What game are you playing at?” The last was almost a murmur, more to herself than to him. Good, he had her confused, and she was suspending action against him once more, at least for the moment.
His circuit of the room had finally brought him to the cluster of captives. His heart sank when he saw that all seven of them were human, not a Sil’ath form among them. Valkarr rose and stole to his side with a shake of his head. He stood so close that the words that followed were more breath against Amric’s ear than actual sound.
“The men say they are the last to survive,” he whispered. “They have seen no other Sil’ath, and no prisoners have been removed from this chamber.”
“Can they all walk?” Amric whispered back, barely moving his lips as he spoke from the side of his mouth.
“Some were injured in the taking,” Valkarr said. His dark eyes glittered with barely restrained fury. “But they do not lack for motivation. They are ready.”
“Good. I will continue around. Take them swiftly up the stairs when the moment allows.”
The Sil’ath warrior inclined his head in the barest of nods and stepped away to hold a hushed conversation with Sariel. Amric resumed walking, looking over the captives as he went. They had the look of soldiers, hard and rough-hewn, but they were also pale, haggard, haunted. Their sunken eyes met his as he passed, and he saw reflected there the specters of what the men had been through since their capture. I can promise you only the chance to live or die on your feet, as men, fighting for your lives, he thought. Nothing more, but let it be enough.
“Adept.”
It was Bellimar’s voice, the timbre of it hollow and strained. The vampire was staring at him from the edge of the pool he had been studying, the soft green glow writhing along the underside of his features. Amric moved toward him, holding himself to an unhurried stride. The Nar’ath queen, hissing to herself, twisted within her enclosure to follow his progress around the room.
Bellimar thrust out a hand as he approached. “Your knife.”
Amric eyed him, but drew his knife from his belt and passed it over without comment. The old man knelt by the side of the pool, watching the dark forms churning within its viscous, luminescent depths.
“Do not touch the waters,” he warned. “They are anathema to living flesh.”
His hand darted out with lightning speed, fastening to one of the cocooned forms and dragging it toward him.
“Tell me,” Bellimar said, “does not the shape of this one strike you as familiar?”
Amric felt a tightening sensation in his chest as he gazed upon the wrapped figure. At first it looked no different to him than the others, just another long, amorphous shape twisting and heaving with corrupted vigor. Then he saw it. Against the folds of soaked cloth-like material, he could pick out broad shoulders and powerful arms pushing at the silken bonds, a narrow waist flaring to flexing legs that were not quite jointed correctly for a man, and behind that a thrashing appendage that suggested nothing so much as a Sil’ath tail. There was understanding and pity in Bellimar’s eyes as he held the knife poised, looking a question at him.
“Do it,” Amric said between gritted teeth.
With a flick of his wrist, Bellimar swept the knife through the coils around the head. A glistening black wedge-shaped visage thrust its way clear, ebon eyes rolling against the sudden bite of the air. Amric’s breath caught in his throat, lodged there, and became stone. Prakseth. Burly Prakseth, jovial and honorable to the last fiber of his being. First to defend, first to comfort. Oh my friend, what have these monsters done to you?
Those malignant orbs darted from Bellimar to Amric. There was recognition there, of a sort, but not the kind he would wish. That glimmer was not a greeting for a familiar friend, but rather a sighting of prey. The jaws parted, and the mouth began to work furiously, open and shut, open and shut, as if shrieking without sound. Amric closed his eyes, sickened. When he opened them again, an unspoken agreement passed between him and Bellimar.
The vampire tightened his fist in the folds of material and raised the body partway from the waters as easily as if that hand had been empty. Amric slid backward a step and spun on his heel. One of his swords rang free with a sound like the chime of a bell. In a blur of motion he whirled, and his blade hammered down in a gleaming arc, cleaving through the black skull and into the chest. With one jerking spasm, the figure went still. Amric dragged his sword clear, and Bellimar laid the body gently at the edge of the pool.
Amric panted, struggling to rein in the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. He had known what to expect, he reminded himself. He had seen it happen to that hapless man when they arrived, and from that instant he had feared the worst for his own. In point of fact, he had known for weeks that death might be all he found on this mission. Soldiers die in battle, the rational part of his mind insisted, and it was, after all, far from the first time he had lost friends to the callous whims of war. It was never easy, would never be easy. His teeth ground in helpless fury. So why did it feel so different this time?
A wave of heat washed through him, and his vision went white at the edges. He fought it back, trembling and shaking his head to clear it. This was no time to succumb to whatever strange illness was plaguing him. He needed to retain control, as there were still lives to save. And lives to avenge. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles creaked.
He threw his head back, gasping for breath, and found the captives climbing the stairs. Some moved under their own power, scrambling weakly up the twisting steps. Others were pushed or half-carried by his Sil’ath warriors. He had to buy them a few more minutes. Whatever he chose to do with his own life, he could not commit theirs to the reckless act of vengeance that was burning at him from the inside. He met Valkarr’s stricken gaze as the Sil’ath hesitated, then ducked under the outstretched arm of one of the men to hasten him up the crude steps. He saw, Amric realized. He knows, and yet he does what must be done. I can do no less.
“What desecration is this?” the Nar’ath queen screeched. “Have the Adepts grown so craven that they cannot face us directly now, but instead resort to preying upon our young?”
He whirled toward her, baring his teeth. “They are not your young,” he spat. “They are not yours at all. They are my people.”
Her head drew back in confusion. “Your people? What matter to the Adepts if we harvest them before you harvest their very world? And what matter to such inconsequential beings? They are like blades of dry grass before the spreading flame. Their tiny lives are not their own, either way. At least we offer them existence, and purpose, where you offer only annihilation.”
The queen leaned forward once more, her eyes narrowing to burning slits. She swept out one arm in a violent gesture toward the retreating captives. “And when did the Adepts become concerned with the fates of such lesser beings?”
As before, he was not certain what reply to make and so he stood, seething with anger, and made none. This time it gave him away.
“False Adept!” she hissed in sudden accusation. Then she paused, cocking her head to the side. “No, you are indeed an Adept, for I can taste your power from here, and it stands apart from the weak magics of this world’s inhabitants as clearly as the full silver moon from the flickering stars. But you do not react as an Adept should, and you hesitate when no Adept would.”
He stood motionless, staring back at her. From the corner of his eye he watched the painstaking progress of the Sil’ath warriors ushering the weakened, stumbling captives up the stairs. His mind raced, trying to think of what sufficiently cryptic statements he could make that would buy them the time they needed to reach the top.
“You would test your strength against the Adepts?” he asked again, putting a measure of disdain in his tone when a fierce part of him wanted only to hurl himself against her. “Tread with care, dark one.”
“Perhaps you are a youngling,” she mused as if she had not heard him, “still uncertain of your powers. Whatever the reason, you seem unable or unwilling to use them. Long have the Nar’ath wished for the day we would test our newfound strength against the Adepts, and long have I wished for the day I would taste the peerless life force of your kind.”
The shoulders of the Nar’ath queen bulged as her body bowed and tensed, and a spider’s web of cracks shot through the stone surrounding her. Her eyes were narrowed to a painfully bright razor’s edge of eldritch green as her head slowly lowered and extended toward him.
“I think, Adept,” she said, “that this will be that day.”
With a scream of primal fury, she surged upward and burst from her containment. A sound like a peal of thunder tore through the cavern as huge shards of rock exploded outward. Amric threw up an arm to shelter his vision against flying debris. He had a split second in which to see the retreating group on the stairs high overhead, staring downward and frozen in shock. Through the rain of rock and the billowing cloud of dust, he had a fleeting moment to glimpse a mammoth serpentine form fringed with countless angular, grasping arms, writhing free of the gaping hole in the ground. Then the Nar’ath queen was hurtling toward him, and he had time for nothing else.