chapter 24
The black-robed Adept spread his hands out before him without breaking stride, and Amric found himself fighting for his life.
The attack came from every direction at once, bewildering, dazzling, faster than thought. Streaks of light leapt from Xenoth’s splayed fingers and arced through the sky. They fell toward Amric like sparkling gossamer threads, graceful in their descent, and yet some nagging instinct warned him that their touch would mean his death. He tried to rise from his knees, but the ground buckled and shifted beneath him like a live thing, throwing him off balance. His attacker made a curt back-handed motion, as if casting something away, and a crackling ball of energy the size of a fist came hurtling at him. He hurled himself to the side, rolling from its path and trying to keep a wary eye upon the falling threads. Rather than continuing past, however, the orb swerved to follow him in a sudden burst of speed.
Amric’s hand darted over his shoulder for one of the swords in a reflexive but futile gesture, but the fiery missile was too close. He threw up his hands, as if mere flesh could somehow ward off the thing’s destructive power, and he braced for the impact. To his surprise, the crackling ball struck some unseen barrier mere inches from his hands. The blow sent a shudder of force through him, but the ball deflected aside. His relief was short-lived, however; the orb looped through the air in an unsteady arc and came at him again, picking up speed.
His mind raced, trying to discern how he had defended himself from the attack, but his thoughts were interrupted as something struck him from behind. His back tingled and went numb, and he stumbled forward from the blow. The treacherous ground rippled and rose to catch at his foot, and he was sent sprawling. A flare of instinct warned him of the next attack, and he spun onto his back, thrusting out a forearm to block it. One of the deadly threads landed inches above his arm and pooled there upon an invisible surface. Several more followed, hissing as they struck. They began to spread, seeking the edges of the shield above him.
Amric gasped for breath, his mind muddled with fatigue. The other within him was a constant, frantic presence now, yammering in fear.
If you can do better, he thought in weary frustration, feel free to step in at any point.
A rumbling blow shook the shield around him, and then another, and then another. Three of the blazing orbs wobbled away from him, dim for a moment and then brightening once more. They were expending their energy against his invisible shield, he realized. Their energy for his; small wonder that he felt more tired by the moment, then. How had Xenoth held up so well beneath Amric’s onslaught of magic, then? The Adept had emerged from the attack, uninjured and infuriatingly unperturbed.
Xenoth’s laughter floated to him.
“You cannot keep this up for long, boy,” the man called to him. “You are untrained, weary, slow to react.” As if to punctuate his point, another thunderous blow shook Amric’s shield and the cold, tingling sensation seeped through his right side. The glowing threads continued to fall above him, spreading and probing for weakness.
Xenoth chuckled. “You see, boy, fighting with magic is like using any other weapon. It requires skill and strategy as well as strength. It requires discipline, and a lifetime of practice. To conquer your foes, you cannot simply hoist the largest sword you find and swing it as hard as you can. Victory goes not to he who roars the loudest.”
The orbs blurred toward Amric, and three more crashing strikes buffeted him. His forearms, still raised above him, were quivering and numb. His breath burned in his throat and whistled between his clenched teeth. The presence within had subsided to feverish, insistent murmurings. Through a mental fog, Amric realized there was coherence to what it was saying. It was articulating a desperate plan.
“To be certain, there is a time and place to hold nothing back,” Xenoth continued. By the direction of his voice, the man was moving around Amric in a slow circle. “However, in this case it is hardly required, since you are a minor threat at best.”
Amric ground his teeth at the naked derision in the Adept’s voice. He knew that Xenoth was trying to taunt him, but it galled him that the man was right. Would Xenoth leave once he had slain Amric? Or would the black-hearted bastard feel compelled to finish Amric’s friends as well?
The presence was still adamant within the warrior’s head. I do not like our odds, Amric thought back in grim response, but neither do I have a better plan. Everything in one strike, then. Be ready.
Three more hammering strikes rang against his invisible shield, and the glowing spheres drifted away in unsteady orbits. Amric closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, and burst into motion.
Guided by the mysterious presence within, he pushed outward with explosive force, casting away the clinging energy of the threads. He surged to his feet, cursing both the lethargy of his movements and the way the world tilted and swayed around him. He found the dark figure of Xenoth no more than a handful of paces away, and he gathered his will for a single surprise strike that would encompass the entirety of the strength remaining to him.
The chilling smile upon the Adept’s hard, angular features was the first true indication that the plan had already failed. Amric strained, drawing upon the power of Essence that surrounded him, the lifeblood of this world, and it responded to his call. Unlike the raging torrent of before, however, it gathered in sluggish, grudging response, as if sharing his weariness. Not enough, he realized, and not fast enough by half.
There was a flash of movement from the black-robed Adept that failed to fully register upon Amric’s dulled senses, and the impact followed an instant later. A sheet of blinding light filled the warrior’s vision, and he was hurled backward. It felt as if a massive, armored war horse had hammered into him at a full charge. He flew through the air and slammed into the ground, sliding to a stop on his back.
He could not recall any sound accompanying the explosion, but his ears rang now with the echoes of a deafening roar and there was a warm trickle at each ear that could only have been blood. The world wavered and fractured above him and darkness leaked through the cracks, but he struggled to hold the fragments together as he clung to consciousness.
An infinite instant later, the tall figure of Xenoth loomed over him. His voice was alternately an intimate whisper and a distant shout.
“What is this, then? Still alive, boy? Your instinctive defenses are impressive indeed. Perhaps there is something to be said after all for not holding back––”
The other within Amric struck out like a coiled serpent, sending a lance of white fire at Xenoth from the warrior’s trembling hand. With a startled curse, the Adept slapped it aside and leapt back. It was the last feeble strike of the exhausted entity, however, and the incorporeal presence withdrew to swirl protectively around Amric’s mind.
“A wilding!” Xenoth exclaimed, his tone heavy with both wonder and revulsion. “You are a wilding!”
Wilding? Should that mean something to him? Amric tried to focus upon the word, upon his foe, upon anything at all, but it kept slipping through his grasp like quicksilver. There was a trio of staccato reports nearby, somewhere past the periphery of his vision. Xenoth flinched and turned away, raising his hands. A searing flash of light came from that direction, followed by a brief but intense wash of heat.
“Interrupt me again with such pathetic attacks, woman,” Xenoth snarled, “and I will come find you out there in the darkness. Your life hangs upon my whim, and your end will not be pleasant if you try my patience further.”
The man loomed over Amric once more, cold triumph illuminating his harsh features. He shook his head and looked over Amric with narrowed eyes, as if facing a particularly colorful and venomous creature, and yet unable to resist the temptation of further study.
“A wilding,” he breathed. “I have never been so close to one.”
A searing jolt ran through Amric’s frame, and he stiffened in pain. The other within him lashed out again, weaker yet, and Xenoth laughed. An invisible weight settled upon him, pressing him to the earth.
“Fascinating,” Xenoth crowed. “This must be how you managed to evade my search all those years ago. Could it be? Could your wilding magic have shielded you somehow on sheer instinct, even at that age? Such power and subtlety from an infant, an ignorant creature––it strains belief! And yet, with your parents slain, there was no one else on this primitive world that could have concealed you from me.”
Parents? Amric’s head spun as he tried to orient on the Adept’s words. He recalled nothing of his parents or his time before he lived among the Sil’ath. Years later, when he had been old enough to frame the proper questions, his adopted family had responded in the laconic manner for which the Sil’ath were known: he had been found, alone and helpless, and they had chosen to take him in. This terrible man was the first he had encountered who knew anything of Amric’s origins. This man had known his parents, and he knew as well what fate had befallen them. The warrior pressed his lips together, forming them around the first of many questions, but only a low groan emerged.
Above him, Xenoth’s face had grown pensive, and his gaze drifted in pursuit of some distant memory. “This also explains your parents’ sudden defiance of the Council and their persistent interest in this remote world. It must be why they fled here in the end. They were trying to hide you.”
Xenoth rocked back on his heels, stroking his short-cropped beard in thought.
“The question at hand, then, is what to do with you,” he mused. “Wildings are executed at birth by edict of law, and yet the opportunity to study one who has managed to survive to adulthood could have considerable value to an interested few. You are sentenced to die twice over, however, as both an affront against nature and as the offspring of traitors. I am forced to anticipate the Council’s wishes on the matter, in the face of this unexpected development. Would they wish the long-delayed sentence carried out immediately, or would they wish you brought back as a unique specimen?”
He leaned down toward Amric and spoke in a lower, conspiratorial tone. “It seems you compel some measure of loyalty among these lesser creatures with which you surround yourself. Even now they approach again, skulking about in the darkness like rats circling a lion with all the ferocity they can manage.” The Adept chuckled, a harsh sound devoid of warmth, but his dark eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Fear not, boy, I have a surprise in store for them. I only hope that I am not forced to slay them all, one by one, before it is ready.”
Amric went cold inside, and in his mind’s eye he bore witness once more to hungry flames devouring the lean figure of his friend, Innikar. Xenoth was correct; his companions stood little chance against this powerful monster. Amric tried to lift his head in a dizzying effort, tried to force a shout of warning from his throat, tried to tell them all to stay back, but the result was scarcely more than a bestial growl even to his own ears. He made another attempt, twisting his head to either side and giving it a frantic and vehement shake of negation. He almost lost consciousness; only by laying his head back against the ground again and pulling in deep breaths did he manage to stave off its departure. He had seen no motion in the darkness beyond the silvery pool of light from the globe overhead, but he had to hope that the others had seen him and recognized the warning.
“No, I cannot bring you back alive,” Xenoth said at last. There was a forced conviction to his tone that punctuated whatever internal conflict had been playing out in his head. “Your existence would become known to the public eventually, and the Council can ill afford a rekindling of past insurrections.” The Adept leaned closer still to him, and the hesitation in his voice vanished, burned away in a forge of bitter anger. “I have to admit some personal preference in the matter, wilding. Ever since that day, all those years ago, when I returned from this world empty-handed and unable to prove your death, I have suffered in the Council’s esteem. You have cost me much, boy. I am an instrument of the Council above all, and though I took no pleasure in the execution of your parents, you can rest assured that I will take great pleasure in yours.”
Amric panted and glared up at the man. His head whirled as much from trying to piece together the information he was hearing as from any physical ailment. His foe was close enough to strike, if only he could move. If his limbs would obey him, they would know in the blink of an eye if an Adept could survive the loss of his head, or if he would perish like any other man. The invisible weight pinning him to the ground was unrelenting, however, and so Amric could only grind his teeth in helpless frustration as Xenoth stepped away from him, and the opportunity was lost.
“Time to die, wilding.”
The Adept’s clenched fists began to glow once more.
Thalya raised her head and risked peering over the low ridge that sheltered her from the Adept’s sight. At her side, Syth did the same.
“His hands are glowing again,” Syth reported in a tight voice.
“I can see that,” the huntress said.
Syth leapt to his feet, his jointed gauntlets flaring open with a metallic rasping sound. “We have to do something! He will finish Amric for certain this time.”
“I am doing something,” she snapped.
She rose, placing a foot upon the ridge, and lifted her bow. Her hand snaked over one shoulder and found an arrow in the quiver slung across her back. From the instant her fingertips brushed its fletching, she knew it for the last of her enchanted black arrows. It was the one she sought, and yet she hesitated. One left. It had taken everything she and her father had scraped and saved, over all those years of meager, nomadic living, to have those three arrows crafted. She had used the first of the three to slay that Nar’ath drone back on the night they had captured her. She had expended the second earlier this very evening, to free Amric from the clutches of the Nar’ath queen. There was but one remaining. It was her final chance to fulfill the mission that had consumed her life. It was her only hope of vindicating her father’s obsession and ridding the world of Bellimar the Unholy at last.
How could she bring herself to waste it on any other purpose?
And yet, when she looked upon the black-robed man standing over Amric, her conviction faltered. She recalled her father’s tales of the ancient Vampire King, a slavering monstrosity whose malevolence and hunger knew no bounds, who raised legions of the walking dead––and worse––to grind humanity under his remorseless heel. The stories were scavenged from dim and dusty histories, it was true, and yet her father had spoken with such fervor that it was easy to think perhaps he had been there to witness it all firsthand. This man, this Adept, certainly did not compare to the horrid visions her father had conjured for her, at least in appearance.
But then, neither did the silver-haired old man she had finally found at the end of her long hunt. There was a darkness lurking beneath his stately exterior, of that she was certain; she had expected as much, though she had not thought to find it so well concealed. Her father had warned her of his superhuman strength and speed as well, but she had not expected to see it exhibited only to save, rather than harm. Above all, she had not expected to see a gentle, abiding sadness in him, and a kindness in his sparkling eyes that unearthed memories from her childhood. It was perhaps the most insidious thing about him that she could no longer look upon him without seeing the grandfatherly man who would always pause with a warm smile for her as a little girl, and who would trail a finger down her cheek and gently tweak her chin before returning to study with her father. She fought a sudden urge to raise her hand to her cheek now, as she had then.
No, Bellimar had not proven to be the monster she expected. Not yet.
She had seen the incredible power wielded by the Adept, however. She had watched in horror as he incinerated the Sil’ath warrior, Innikar, in mid-stride. She had hidden in the darkness, seething with helpless anger, as this monster in the guise of a man tortured her companions with savage amusement. The contempt in which he held their lives was almost palpable, and he spoke of the destruction of their world as if it was a foregone conclusion. If there was any truth to his words, then this creature was every bit as much a threat to her world as was the demon of her father’s darkest fears.
And Amric was going to die if she took no action. It was clear that the swordsman was possessed of his own mysteries, but he was courageous, honorable and compassionate, and she refused to withhold the shot that might save his life.
The black arrow seemed to leap forth into her hand, humming with power and intent. In one smooth motion, she nocked it and drew the bowstring until her hand touched her cheek. She sighted in on her target. Xenoth was focused upon the supine figure of Amric before him, and brilliant white fire flared and curled about the black-robed Adept’s hands, spread at his sides. It was a long shot in poor light, but she could not get much closer without sharing Innikar’s fate. And even if she could, there was no more time for subterfuge.
Her lips pressed together in a grim line. The man had somehow sensed her attack before and managed to deflect her normal arrows. Stopping this missile would be another matter. It had not killed the enormous Nar’ath queen, but it had incapacitated her for a time and made an utter ruin of her face.
Let us see, then, what it does to a man who appears quite mortal, Thalya thought to herself.
Syth waited beside her, tense and expectant. The ceaseless winds around him whipped at his clothes, almost lifting him from his feet in his eagerness to charge forward. Xenoth raised his fiery hands, advancing a step as he did so. The wicked, glinting tip of the arrow shifted a hair to follow. Thalya let out a slow breath, and her fingers tensed for the release.
A rumbling roar shook the ground. Thalya swayed, thrown off balance, and lowered her bow to avoid loosing a wild shot into the night. Her target staggered as well and cast about wildly for the source of this new disturbance.
The sand over the collapsed Nar’ath hive erupted less than thirty yards from Xenoth and Amric, and a billowing cloud climbed into the sable sky. With a shriek like metal tearing, the Nar’ath queen burst forth. Her claws left long furrows as she dragged her massive form free of its earthen prison. She was ragged and torn, and viscous green ichor seeped from her many wounds. Several of her appendages hung broken and useless, but she dropped into a menacing crouch on the remaining limbs. Her serpentine coils gathered behind her. The queen bared her fangs in a slavering hiss, and her gaze raked over the supine form of Amric to fix upon Xenoth.
“Another Adept!” she shouted. “So it was no idle threat after all.”
The huntress raised her bow and then hesitated. Which to target? And what good would it do to slay one when the other would then be their undoing? She muttered an oath and dropped down behind the low ridge again. Syth knelt beside her.
“What do we do now?” he breathed, his eyes scanning the scene beyond like a caged animal.
“We wait,” she whispered back, “and hope for the right opening.”
“What trick is this, wilding?” she heard Xenoth demand. “What manner of creature is this?”
“You are looking upon the fall of your kind, Adept,” the queen snarled in response. “We are the Nar’ath. We are your doom made flesh.”
Xenoth snorted. “From the look of things, you are only a pace or two from your own doom. If you truly know my kind, creature, you should know as well how easily I can send you the remaining distance. Begone, then! Enjoy what time remains to you and to this pitiful world.”
“Indeed, we know your kind, Adept,” the queen answered with a low, sibilant laugh. “You gave birth to us, all those centuries ago, and then tried to end us, but you failed. We have been preparing to face you again, ever since, on more even footing this time. We are nearly ready now, and it is not this world that interests us.”
“Do not trouble me with your riddles, creature,” Xenoth snapped. “Speak your meaning before I destroy you where you stand.”
The Nar’ath queen gave another ugly chuckle. “You will not find me such easy prey, Adept. Even now, my minions return at speed to defend or avenge me. They will wash over you like a tide. You cannot hope to slay them all.”
“I have no need to slay them all,” Xenoth said. “My business here will be concluded long before your forces arrive.” His voice rang with confidence, but Thalya noted that he threw a glance to either side, probing the darkness of the wastes.
“And then you think to return home, to your world, through the Essence Gate nestled amid the ancient ruins of Queln?” The Nar’ath queen’s harsh voice almost purred with satisfaction.
There was a long pause as the black-robed Adept stood, still and silent, regarding the monster swaying in a spider’s crouch before him. “You cannot use the Essence Gate,” he said at last.
The queen’s laugh was booming, triumphant. “I see that the colossal arrogance of the Adepts has not diminished in all this time!” She leaned forward, and her voice dropped to an almost intimate whisper that somehow still carried to Thalya’s ears. “We have already used the Gate, sweet enemy mine, and countless times at that.”
“Impossible. You are lying.”
“I would not hesitate to harm you with lies,” the Nar’ath queen sneered, “but when the truth will suffice, it is a much sharper weapon. Years ago the Essence Gate began to draw, ever so slightly, upon the energies of this world. My sisters and I were feeding upon the ley lines to restore our strength and to increase our numbers. We were proceeding with utmost caution, remaining well out of sight. The Gate drew tremendous power to it, swelling the lines as it drained the land. It was nothing at all for us to trace the flow of power to its origin in Queln, where so many of the lines meet in a great nexus. We could feel the power flowing through the Gate, and we were quick to divine its purpose. We moved but a few token forces through at first, testing our ability to use the passage. We grew bolder when we saw how poorly the Gates were protected on your side. Now many of my sisters have already passed through with their armies into your world, and our forces build on both sides.”
Xenoth did not reply, and the queen laughed in disdain. “What power you have bestowed upon us, all unknowing! You tapped into the arteries of this world, unable to rein in your appetite, and were unaware of the parasite you fed as you did so. The Nar’ath have grown stronger in recent years than in all the centuries that came before. Your greed and conceit have at last paved the way for your downfall, and for our ascension.”
Xenoth growled something in reply which Thalya was unable to discern, but the Nar’ath queen rumbled another laugh that grew hard and brittle at the end. “Do you take me for a fool?” she demanded. “You cannot change what will be. Your world is lost, and it gives me pleasure to have you die not in ignorance, but in despair!”
On the last word, her voice rose to a terrible shriek, and she sprang at the Adept. The black-robed figure threw his arms wide, and fire lanced from his fingers to slam into the charging queen. She crashed to the ground with a bellow, but pushed herself upright in an instant, cackling and fixing her emerald glare upon Xenoth. Tendrils of smoke rose where the fire had scorched her flesh. She hurtled forward, impossibly quick for a creature of such mass, and fire streaked out again to lash at her in response. This time she hunched forward, shielding her head with claw and limb, and drew most of the fire upon her heavy shoulders. Some of it struck home, but most glanced away from her plated armor.
The Nar’ath queen peered between her crossed limbs with a devil’s grin, eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh yes, Adept,” she hissed. “We have built up some resistance to your arsenal since last we met.”
She lunged toward him. Xenoth stabbed his hands toward the sky, and a thick wall reared from the wasteland ground before him. With a thunderous crash the Nar’ath queen hammered through it. She lashed out with a long, many-jointed limb at Xenoth. He crossed his arm in a warding gesture, and though her claws rebounded from the empty air before him, the Adept was sent flying through the night in a flutter of black robes. With a hiss of pleasure, the queen slithered after him.
“Come on!” Syth exclaimed, bounding to his feet.
Thalya tore her gaze from where the Nar’ath queen was leaving the pool of light, and blinked up at him. “Where?”
“To the swordsman! He is no longer bound. This is our chance to be away from here while those monsters tear each other apart.”
The huntress snapped her gaze back to Amric, abandoned for the moment on the sands. It seemed true; the warrior was no longer pinned flat on his back, but rather had risen to one elbow and was holding his head with his other hand. Thalya sprang to her feet and followed Syth, who was already sprinting across the sands.
As she ran, the titanic struggle between the Nar’ath and the Adept continued. The concussive force of a distant explosion nearly lifted Thalya from her feet, and the Nar’ath queen slammed to the ground partially in the light. She rose and twisted toward her foe, lurching into sinuous motion once more. Green fire sprang into sight across her armored carapace, spreading with voracious speed. The queen shrieked her rage but otherwise paid it no heed, and the unnatural fire dwindled and died away as she slithered back into the darkness beyond. Arcing threads of light illuminated her silhouette, raining down upon her like a volley of flaming arrows, and she swatted at them as she bore down upon her prey.
Thalya shuddered and ran on.
Syth, moving swift as the wind that was a part of his nature, reached Amric first. The Sil’ath warriors, Valkarr and Sariel, seemed to appear from nowhere and were at his side moments later. The three of them had the swordsman on his feet by the time Thalya reached them all. Amric swayed in their grip, but his voice was level and steady when he spoke.
“You have to find Halthak and be away from here,” he said. “The Adept means to kill you all by some scheme he has devised.”
Valkarr and Sariel exchanged a glance, and both opened their mouths to reply, but whatever they were to say was lost beneath a sudden, keening scream by the Nar’ath queen. Sand sprayed over them in a rolling cloud as her massive form was driven back into the light. Fire streaked from the darkness and tore at her flesh, and she twisted from side to side in a futile effort to avoid each new strike. The Adept appeared, following her and pressing the attack. Even as the fire continued to flay at her in relentless strokes, the ground about her rippled and hardened into great thorns of stone that speared into her serpentine body and held her fast. The queen roared in fury and tried to wrench loose for another charge, but a towering spike shot upward to pierce her midsection, transfixing her. She quivered with the blow and slumped forward onto the spike. Only then did the rain of fire cease. The Nar’ath queen drew short, ragged breaths and lifted her fearsome head to glare hatred at her foe.
Xenoth stalked further into the silvery light, dirtied and disheveled and panting with exertion. Perspiration ran across the hard planes of his face, drawing veins of flesh in the dust there. “Now you die, fiend,” he said in a low growl.
“You call us monsters, Adept, and yet it is not we who have destroyed worlds to sate our appetites.” She tilted her head toward him in a hideous grin as dark green ichor seeped between her fanged teeth. “At least, not yet.” The Nar’ath queen convulsed with harsh, gurgling laughter.
Xenoth’s jaw clenched and he shot both hands skyward. Another huge pair of spikes erupted from the ground and met at the queen’s chest, and the laughter came to an abrupt end. The giant form sagged and went still. The Adept eyed the motionless creature for a long moment before turning toward them. Thalya felt a chill play along her spine at the murderous rage writ plain upon the man’s features. Xenoth stabbed a finger at Amric.
“You, wilding, are coming back to Aetheria with me. The Council needs to hear of this new threat, and I will bring them all that you know on the matter.”
“That,” Amric replied, “will be a disappointment to all involved.”
Xenoth’s eyes narrowed. “Nevertheless, before you die, you will do this service for the world that birthed you. Come here, boy!”
He made a sharp beckoning gesture, and Amric stiffened. Torn from the grasp of his comrades, he hurtled through the air to hover before the Adept. Steel rang as the two Sil’ath warriors drew their swords and started forward, and Syth crouched and clenched his gauntleted fists, preparing to launch himself as well. Thalya raised her bow, reaching over one shoulder for her quiver.
“No, wait!” Amric shouted, halting them in their tracks. Thalya’s hand froze with her fingers brushing the fletching of an arrow. “He will burn you to cinders, as he did Innikar!”
“Listen to the boy,” Xenoth warned. He made a gesture, and a brilliant seam of light parted in the air behind him. The huntress caught a glimpse through the aperture of another sliver of night, elsewhere––of murky grey mists curling about tumbled masses of bleached stone. “There is no need for me to slay you all. Not when someone else is so eager to do so.”
Something about the Adept’s dark chuckle made the hair at the nape of her neck stand on end; it was a sound laden with both malice and conviction. Then another sound caught her attention, a dry rustling at the edge of the darkness. She turned her head toward it, and her flesh turned to ice.
Something blacker than the night was pooling there, and shadows rippled from it in waves that lapped hungrily at the meager light. A figure rose at the deepest heart of the shadow, powerful and timeless, and twin pinpoints of scarlet swung toward them. A wave of cold washed over her as that unblinking gaze settled upon her, pushing at her like a physical thing, peeling away her defenses and leaving her trembling like a child. Then it slid across her and was on to the others. The huntress heard their startled gasps and knew they felt it as well, but she could not turn away from the thing in the shadows. She realized her hand, still hovering at her quiver, was shaking so much that the arrow she touched was rattling among its fellows.
The dark figure rose in a slow, silken movement, and the caressing darkness flowed to it and enfolded it like a mantle. The mantle of the Vampire King, the Lord of the Night.
Bellimar the Black had returned.