chapter 25
Thalya stared, unable to move, the very breath frozen in her throat.
“What have you done?” she heard Amric demand.
Xenoth turned his head a fraction but did not take his eyes from the dark figure at the center of the gathering shadows. “I promised a surprise for these lesser creatures, wilding. Look on a moment, before you and I depart, and witness what I have prepared for your companions.”
Bellimar––or rather, the monstrosity that now stood in his place––shifted his gaze over to the Adept. Bloodless lips parted in a smile too broad by far to be human, revealing long, curving fangs beneath. “And where will you flee, Adept?” he whispered. Thalya flinched as the velvet words, vibrating with insidious power, caressed at her ears.
Xenoth lifted his chin. “I flee from nothing and no one.”
Bellimar made a deep inhaling sound, and the silvery light from the globe above dimmed for a moment as tendrils of shadow slithered across the sands. Xenoth flicked a glance at the tiny ball of light, and then back to the vampire. “And yet you are fearful, Adept,” Bellimar pressed. “I can taste your fear, and it is a heady thing to one so long denied his appetites.”
“I do not fear you, fiend,” Xenoth sneered. “My concern is for Aetheria alone. The Nar’ath filth must not be allowed to cross over into my world.”
“By the queen’s own words, many already have. You are too late.”
“Then I will prevent any more from crossing over.”
“And how will you accomplish this, Adept?” Bellimar asked in a chiding tone. “The magic you expended on the wilding and the Nar’ath queen has left you more drained than you wish to show. You are weary, and you have faced but one of the Nar’ath.”
“I have no need to defeat them all myself, fool. When I bring word of this threat to the Council, they will authorize me to activate the Gate, and this wretched world will be drained of its Essence. The Nar’ath will perish along with everything else. We can then hunt at our leisure whatever smattering of those creatures already made it through.”
Thalya felt a new chill at the Adept’s words. This, then, was the destruction of their world he had been referencing in that cold, vindictive manner. Worse, it appeared that the night’s events had only served to accelerate the dire fate of her world. Her gaze darted between Bellimar and the Adept. They were intent upon each other, while she and the others were all but forgotten for the moment. Her fingers closed upon the shaft of the arrow and began to remove it from the quiver in a very slow, deliberate draw.
“Come, wilding, it is time for us to go,” Xenoth said. He half-turned toward the glowing rift in the air and made a peremptory gesture that brought the suspended form of Amric drifting after him.
Bellimar moved. So sudden and silent was the motion that the huntress blinked in momentary disorientation as her eyes struggled to follow it. She was struck by a memory from her childhood, one of many occasions when her youthful exuberance had shrugged free of the limits imposed by her father’s cautionary words. Playing in the forbidden territory of his study, she had knocked over a large inkwell on his desk, and watched in dawning horror as the jet-black ink raced in spreading rivulets over the papers scattered across its oaken surface. Bellimar’s movement was like that, quick and liquid. One moment that heart of darkness was seething at the edge of the light twenty yards away, and then it simply flowed a dozen yards closer in the span of a breath. His eyes never left the black-robed Adept, and his fangs were still bared in a terrible grin.
Xenoth spun around with a snarl. “Do not think to pit yourself against me, vampire! I freed you from your binding so that you might enjoy a brief return to your former glory, but do not forget your place.”
Bellimar drew back into the roiling mass of shadow until only his eyes were visible as scarlet pinpoints burning with feverish intensity. “Fear not, Adept, I will never forget what your forebears did to me. Still, they demonstrated might on a scale to dwarf your own. Perhaps the Nar’ath queen was correct, and the Adepts have grown weak and complacent over the centuries. Perhaps you are indeed but echoes of your former glory. Perhaps the time of the Adepts is nearly past.”
Xenoth’s expression darkened further yet. “You wish to test my strength and judge for yourself?”
A low, silken chuckle rumbled out of the darkness. “Are those the ancient ruins of Queln I see behind you?”
“Where I travel next is of no import to you,” Xenoth snapped in response.
“Ah, but there, I am afraid, we must disagree.” The core of shadow seemed to fold in upon itself and vanish, drawing the tendrils of darkness along with it. Thalya froze, glancing around, and Xenoth stiffened as well. Bellimar reappeared in a black cloud, this time on the other side of the ring of light, closer still to the Adept and this time nearly between him and the huntress.
“You see,” he continued as if uninterrupted, “you have given much back to me, much that I thought never to experience again. Now you speak of depriving me of it all once more, and this time forever. I am not certain I can abide it.”
“It is not your choice to make, creature,” Xenoth stated in a flat tone. “You cannot affect what will come, and if you cross me now I will burn you to ash. Embrace the gift I have given you, and the time remaining to you. I have even gone so far as to provide the means to slake your thirst.” With a sweeping gesture and a sardonic smile, the man indicated Thalya, Syth and the Sil’ath warriors. One of the Sil’ath hissed in anger, and Syth uttered a quiet oath under his breath.
Bellimar glanced at them all over one shoulder. Thalya felt the weight of his burning gaze press upon her, saw him take in her upraised arm and the black arrow in her hand. They locked eyes for a split second, and her stomach plummeted as the corner of his mouth quirked upward in a knowing smirk. Then, with a deliberate gliding motion, he crossed between the huntress and the Adept, turning his back fully to her.
“Yes,” he murmured to Xenoth. “So you have.”
Thalya’s mouth fell open. He was all but inviting her to strike at his exposed back! Was it a trick? Bellimar was within the argent ring of light, but the shadows moved with him like a shroud, and the light itself seemed to recoil from his presence like waves from a darkened shore. Still, she could discern the outline of his figure with enough clarity to place the shaft between his shoulder blades. Was he taunting her to take the shot, intending to foil it with inhuman speed as he had before? Perhaps he was confident that the missile would not prove powerful enough to do him lasting harm, now that he had been transformed. That seemed foolish, however; the other two arrows had slain one of the Nar’ath soldiers and gravely wounded the massive queen, and all this despite the queen’s boastful words to Xenoth of her kind’s resistance to magical assaults. Why, then? Was Bellimar truly courting his own destruction?
“Come, wilding,” Xenoth said. “It is time we left your friend to his appetites.”
The man backed toward the rift, which had begun to shimmer and pulse at the edges. Was it her imagination, or was it slightly smaller and less bright than when it had first appeared? Amric grunted as he began to float after the Adept once more, and then his motion faltered and stopped.
“No,” he said through clenched teeth.
Xenoth looked up at him, raising one dark eyebrow. “Impossible,” he breathed.
“I am not going with you.” Amric’s voice was low and growling with strain.
The Adept’s short beard bristled as he thrust out his chin, and his eyes narrowed in concentration. Amric quivered, still hanging in the air, but did not move any closer. The heels of his boots settled a few inches closer to the ground. This time the grunt of effort belonged to Xenoth, and Amric’s slow descent was halted. Thalya felt the hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck rise as the air began to hum and crackle with energy.
“Impossible,” Xenoth repeated.
“I would surrender myself to prevent further death, but you mean to see my friends slain and my world destroyed regardless of my fate.” The warrior bared his teeth in a snarl. “Not while I draw breath, Adept.”
“That is easily remedied, boy,” Xenoth snapped, his features twisted with fury. “You may have caught your breath now, but I can convince the Council without the evidence you bring. Die, wilding!” On the last words, his voice rose to a frenzied shout. His arms flung outward, sending his black robes billowing, and his hands clenched, claw-like, around sudden writhing flame.
And then, it seemed to Thalya, everything happened at once.
Syth left her side in a rush of wind, charging toward the Adept. Valkarr and Sariel surged forward at the same instant with a throaty battle roar, silver light glinting from their blades. As quick as they all were, however, quicker still was Bellimar the Black. He launched at Xenoth like an ebon spear, silent and lethal in flight. The Adept fell back a step with a startled curse, twisting about to face these new threats. Fire leapt from his hands to lance at Bellimar, but the vampire flowed to one side in his swirling cloak of shadow, evading the strike. More fire followed, streaking after him in the night, and he faded back from it in sinuous, graceful motions, like thick black smoke cast before a storm wind.
A sharp gesture from the Adept sent a scything blast of air into the charging warriors, tearing them from their feet. Thalya staggered at the concussive force, though she was a good distance behind them by then. As she regained her balance, she felt a familiar tugging sensation through her arm and shoulder. She realized she had nocked the black arrow to her bow and drawn it back until the ridge of her hand brushed her cheek. She followed the shifting figure of Bellimar through his darting movements. The old man––the black fiend, she corrected herself––eluded streak after streak of fire, but each killing strike drew closer to him than the last.
Amric dropped to the ground and fell to all fours. Whether Xenoth’s concentration had lapsed or the warrior had somehow broken the bonds on his own, she could not say. His chest heaved with exertion as he pushed himself to one knee and began to rise, but the power cascaded from him in shimmering waves. With an incoherent cry of rage, Xenoth wheeled to face him.
For one fraction of a second, time stood still for the huntress. Every detail of the frenzied scene yielded itself to her with startling clarity. Syth and Valkarr struggled to their feet, dazed. Sariel was a crumpled, unmoving form upon the sallow ground beyond them. Bellimar, target of a lifetime of vengeance, crouched like a dark bird of prey with the talons of one pallid hand sunk into the sand before him. He looked at her, framed for that one perfect moment by the wickedly curved blades of the arrowhead. He flashed a smile, and the corner of one eye crinkled in a fleeting wink. And then, as before, he turned away in a deliberate motion and left himself defenseless to her.
The ensorcelled arrow strained at the bow, humming with eagerness. The missile had grown warm to the touch, and then hot, as if losing patience at her hesitation. It bathed her cheek with heat and threatened to sear the tips of her fingers. The last of the three, the last with a chance to fulfill its destiny, it had been meant for this moment since its creation. It sang at that moment with a singular joy of purpose.
And what of her, then? She had been waiting for this moment even longer, no less crafted and sharpened and aimed than the arrow itself. Why had she not already taken the shot? Why did her heart not thrill to the same sense of fulfillment, of fate? Why did her fingers refuse, even now, to release the black arrow to its deadly flight?
Xenoth lifted hands that blazed with fire. Amric was still rising unsteadily to his feet, and some detached part of her mind noted that the swordsman would not be in time to ward off the coming attack. Bellimar knelt with his back to her, motionless, waiting.
Thalya released her breath as she released the arrow, just as she had been trained to do. It struck her as peculiar that it came out almost like a sigh of relief, like a parting kiss to speed the weapon on its way. The string thrummed and the arrow leapt from her bow. That elusive sense of fulfillment flooded her at last as she watched it go with a grim smile. Fly true, she thought fiercely after it.
Xenoth saw it coming at the last instant. He froze, and his features twisted from murderous intent to an almost comical surprise. He threw his hands up in a warding gesture, and the missile struck an unseen barrier less than an arm’s length from his face. There was an ear-shattering detonation, and green fire coruscated over an invisible dome-like shape before the man. Xenoth staggered back with a cry and dropped to one knee. A wave of hot air washed over Thalya and brought a biting cloud of dust and sand with it. She raised an arm to shield her eyes, and when she lowered it again, Xenoth was staring at her, shaking with incredulous rage.
“You dare?” he thundered. “You insolent––”
Amric attacked in a roar of flame. He stood, braced forward, arms extended and palms outward as if he meant to push Xenoth away through sheer force of will.
And push him he did.
Brilliant white light erupted from Amric’s hands and fountained into a column of energy as thick as a man. It was bright as the sun, but more narrowly focused than the uncontrolled torrent he had called forth before. Xenoth managed to lower his head and cross his arms against it, but the strike slammed into his defenses, lifted him from his feet and threw him backward. The Adept flew through the glowing rift he had opened and disappeared into the mists beyond in a flutter of black robes. The fissure wavered at his passing, and then its fiery edges contracted and came together like a great winking eye. The seam flared once in the night air, then faded and was gone.
Xenoth blinked, and dragged in a shuddering breath. A steady ringing sound droned in his ears, and he felt strangely weightless. Pale mists curled about him in a cool embrace, but he caught glimpses of the night sky through that shroud, and it seemed to him that the world was tilted the wrong way. For that matter, the damp, lanky grasses intertwined with his beard and tickling his nose and lips seemed out of place as well.
A soft rustling sound approached. Large, almond-shaped amber eyes regarded him behind a thin veil of mist, and he blinked back at them, uncomprehending. A scratching noise came to him, claw upon stone, and an eager mewling escaped the creature. It was answered from a smattering of other directions, all drawing nearer.
It was those sounds that jarred the Adept from his stupor. They carried notes of need, of intent, of hunger. The danger of his situation crashed in on him.
Xenoth lurched upward to a sitting position with a thin shout, sweeping an arm around in an arc to wave them back. The nearest creature shrank away from him, its rabid eyes narrowed, and it turned as if to leave. The Adept pushed to his feet and staggered for a moment, shaking his head to clear it. The creature gave a rumbling hiss of unmistakable pleasure at this show of weakness and took another slow step toward him. Xenoth felt a momentary stab of fear that gave way to burgeoning rage.
“Back, you carrion-feeders!” he shouted, whirling his hands in a wide circle that sent lashes of fire into the mists. The lurking shapes scattered, keening in fear and frustration. They melted back into the murk, and then Xenoth was alone.
He slapped at his robes with more vigor than necessary to dust them off. He could not decide if he was more furious at the defiance of lesser creatures such as the wilding and his companions, or at his own foolishness for being caught by surprise like that. In the end, he concluded he had fury enough for both at the moment. The boy had made a quick recovery, and had shown surprising strength and focus in that last attack. Xenoth knew little of wildings; perhaps that wild, instinctual nature to their magic enabled them to adapt with unnatural swiftness. Doubtless it was merely one of many reasons the Council had eradicated them with systematic precision, throughout the years. And where had the woman procured a nasty little surprise like that arrow, anyway? This primitive world was proving to be full of unpleasant surprises.
He clenched his fists and spent a long moment contemplating the idea of ripping open another Way to go finish off the wilding. No, he decided at last with a sigh. As much as it would bring him pleasure, it was a poor plan. Opening a Way to unfamiliar territory was a taxing endeavor, and he had already done it twice this night in rapid succession. Another trip to and from the wastes to capture the wilding, after all that he had spent that night, would leave his strength ebbing to a dangerous level.
Xenoth frowned. It galled him to admit it, but that damnable vampire had been correct: he was weary. Subduing the wilding had been no real challenge. The boy was strong and unpredictable, but he lacked any semblance of craft that would make him a true threat. The Nar’ath monstrosity, however, had been another matter. The fiend had hardly been slowed by attacks that should have torn it asunder, and Xenoth had been forced to put more and more energy behind each strike to affect it at all. In the end he had resorted to indirect means, pouring energy into the creature’s surroundings to batter at it, to weaken it, and to slip past its armor at last. He considered its intimations that its kind had built up some resistance to magic over time in preparation for facing the Adepts, and he shuddered to think of untold numbers of the monsters already lurking within his world.
He knew what must be done. He knew as well that it might well mean his life to do it.
When the flare of magical activity here––power that could only have been an Adept––had drawn the attention of the Council, it had confirmed his greatest shame at the same time it offered his chance at redemption. Find and eliminate the boy, an enemy of the Council by extension, as he had failed to do all those years ago. It was made quite clear that Xenoth’s life was forfeit if he returned empty-handed again.
That, however, was exactly what he had to do.
A new, higher priority had surfaced, and it could not wait upon his original mission. He had to close the doorway used by the Nar’ath to enter Aetheria and warn the Council of the hidden threat already harbored there. Would his masters understand the choice he faced? Would they show lenience for the decision he was about to make?
Xenoth took a deep breath and turned to look upon the Gate. It towered above the fog, a massive arch of stone that stood silent and majestic atop its marble platform. A faint nimbus of light surrounded it and imbued the crawling mists in all directions with an eldritch glow. The weathered sigils carved into its surface, each as tall as a man, pulsed in a slow rhythm as if the ancient construct was drawing breath. Within the arch, a shimmering surface stretched and rippled like dark waters kissed by moonlight. Even standing hundreds of yards from it, Xenoth could feel the power of the Essence Gate pulling at him. The power to give or take on a cataclysmic level. The power to share or to destroy. The power to unmake.
The black-robed Adept let his eyes travel over the Gate, following the curve of the great arch and lingering upon each luminous glyph. He knew in principle how to proceed, though he had never thought to perform the actions himself. What he was contemplating carried its own penalty of death or imprisonment. The Essence Gates transmitted the lifeblood of Aetheria; the Council did not tolerate tampering with their operation except under its own express orders. And yet, it had to be done. It was the only way to be certain, the only way to protect Aetheria.
With that much decided, he had one more choice left to make: close the door entirely, or throw it wide open? The door was open a crack at the moment, figuratively speaking; Aetheria was sipping at this world’s essence through the Gate. He could disable the Gate, which would simultaneously sever the flow of magic through it as well as prevent its use as a transportation portal between the two worlds. Aetheria required the sustenance it received from its feeder worlds, however, and the Council would not be pleased to lose one that was drawing at this level.
If the door could not be closed, then, that left only the other option: he could open the door wide by fully activating the Gate. This world would be drained of its magic in rapid, catastrophic fashion, and all life here would perish. Rather than a reduction of its intake, Aetheria would receive a veritable flood of new energy to meet its needs for a time. The Nar’ath scourge waiting to cross over would be dead, and the troublesome wilding as well. A hard smile spread across Xenoth’s features. It was a way to protect Aetheria and fulfill his mission at the same time. In any event, the Gate’s current activity level was an indication that this world was scheduled for harvest soon. He would merely be accelerating the schedule somewhat. He could only hope the Council would see it that way as well.
The Essence Gate seemed to beckon to him from its platform. The device was an ancient and formidable magic, but it would take some time to reach full operation. It would take longer still for it to drain the essence from this world. The sooner he started, the sooner Aetheria would be safe.
Xenoth squared his shoulders and strode into the mist.
“Did you kill him?”
Amric tore his gaze from where the glowing rift in the air had vanished, and shifted it over to the huntress. The wilding magic was flitting about inside him in a state of wordless elation, and the sensation, akin to a persistent buzzing in his ears, was very distracting. “What did you say?”
“Did you kill him?” she repeated. “The Adept, with that last attack of yours.”
Something inside the warrior flinched at the wary mask she wore as she regarded him. He shook his head. “No, I do not think so,” he said. “It was a weak strike, but it caught him off-balance and gave him a good push while his attention was elsewhere.” He gave her a steady look. “You have my gratitude for your intervention, Thalya. I owe you my life.”
Her cheeks colored and she lifted her chin in a clipped nod.
“Foolish girl,” hissed a voice that brought them both sharply around. Bellimar had withdrawn to the light’s edge, and was once again wreathed in deepest shadow. His eyes burned blood-red from the darkness. “You had your opening, girl. You should have taken the shot. I may not have the strength to offer you another.”
Thalya’s features hardened. “I made the choice to save Amric’s life over ending yours, Bellimar,” she snarled. “I hope I chose the greater monster for that last arrow. Do not prove me wrong!”
The huntress spun on her heel and stalked away, muttering about the need to find Halthak so they could depart this place. Syth was weaving a drunken path toward them, and she brushed past him without a word. He craned his neck to watch her stomp into the darkness.
“What is she so angry about?” he demanded in a too-loud voice, knuckling his ear and shaking his head to clear it.
“She questions herself over the shot not taken,” Bellimar responded. Then he gave a dry, sibilant chuckle. “And she wishes for one more such arrow.”
Syth eyed the old man, exchanged a meaningful glance with Amric, and then turned to follow Thalya. “I will help her look for the healer,” he called over his shoulder. “He cannot have been thrown far.”
Amric faced the vampire, and they regarded each other without speaking. At last, Bellimar broke the silence with a whisper. “You already know what must be done, swordsman. Freed of the binding that suppressed my demonic nature, I will once again be more monster than man, soon enough. You will be forced to end me, if you can, or I will slay you all.”
The warrior shivered at the quiet conviction behind the old man’s words. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bellimar was already shaking his head. “There is no salvation for me this time, Amric. Last time, it took a group of Adepts, each far more powerful than the one we just fought, to change my very nature in this way. Even if the Adepts of today are still capable of such acts, we simply do not have the time before I once again become a scourge of death upon this world––starting with all of you.”
“How long can you hold out?”
“Not long, I am afraid. My hunger has been long denied, but its victory is now inevitable. My control erodes with each passing moment, and I find it harder and harder to remember why I should fight against it.”
Amric folded his arms across his chest, fixing storm-grey eyes upon Bellimar. When he spoke, his voice was level and edged with the steel of command. “You staved it off for centuries, holding together a failing enchantment through sheer force of will. You have risked yourself for all of us more than once. Even Thalya, looking upon you just now, found something worth saving.” The pinpoints of scarlet blinked and shifted in the direction the huntress had gone, before settling back upon the warrior.
“We must tend to our fallen,” Amric continued. “We must be gone from here before either the Adept or the Nar’ath minions return. We can regroup with the survivors from the hive at the crag where we camped last night, and make our plan there. Xenoth must be stopped. I need you to hold out that long.”
Bellimar snorted. “You cannot stop him. You were fortunate to survive this encounter.”
“Still, I mean to try, and I will need your counsel if I am to stand any chance at all.”
There was a pause, and then Bellimar whispered, “And what then, swordsman?”
“There has to be a way,” Amric said quietly.
The vampire gave a slow shake of his head. “You ask the impossible, many times over.”
“Still,” the warrior repeated, “I mean to try.”
Bellimar drew back into the shadows until even the crimson glimmer of his eyes all but disappeared.
“I need you to hold out that long, Bellimar. What say you?” Amric’s mouth quirked upward at the corner as he echoed the old man’s own words from when they met in the inn at Keldrin’s Landing, what seemed an eternity ago.
“I will strive to do as you ask,” Bellimar replied at last. “But when the time comes, promise me you will act without hesitation. Promise you will do what must be done, if you can.”
Amric inclined his head in a grave nod. “I will.”
He turned his attention to helping with the fallen. Valkarr had already assisted Sariel to her feet, and though she was groggy from the concussive blast that had knocked her unconscious, she bore no serious injuries. The two of them greeted him as he approached. On the surface they sounded no different than the friends he had known since childhood, but there was an unfamiliar hint of reserve to the bearing of each that sent slivers of ice deep into his chest.
A brief search for the horses proved fruitless. The animals had either fled too far to hear their calls, or had fallen prey to the denizens of the wastes. Syth and Thalya had better luck locating Halthak, at least. The healer had been hurled away in the chaos and partially buried under a mound of sand. He staggered back with the support of the others, and his own bruises and abrasions were scarcely healed before he began fretting over everyone else.
The remains of Innikar were so blackened and distorted as to be unrecognizable, little more than warped blades and bits of metal in a pile of ash and cinder. The swords were in no condition to return to his family back home, so they buried them with him, there in the wasteland. It was a futile gesture, given the ephemeral landscape of rolling sands all about them, but one they performed by unspoken agreement. They had no suitable means by which to carry the remains anywhere else, and Sil’ath tradition held that their heroes should lie where they fell in battle, so that they could continue the fight from the spirit world. Amric pictured the irrepressible Innikar shrugging off an inconvenience like death as if it were some ill-fitting cloak, drawing his swords once more with the joy of battle alight upon his lean features. He smiled to himself. The Sil’ath were ever a stubborn, pragmatic people, and their beliefs were a firm reflection of that. The smile faded. The Sil’ath. His people.
The strange, silvery orb Xenoth had left hanging above them had begun to wane by the time they gathered to leave. Its light was but a glimmer when they crested the first rise. It was gone by the next.
They trekked through darkness that was hemmed in below by the pale sands of the wastes, and above by the thick blanket of clouds laying siege to the moon. Bellimar kept his distance from the party as they marched. Amric forbade him from ranging too far ahead for fear that encountering the weakened captives from the hive while alone would prove too great a temptation. Even so, the vampire vanished for uncomfortable stretches of time before reappearing in some new and startling direction. Several times it seemed a great winged shape, blacker than the night, passed over them in a wake of bitter cold. More than once, the wilding presence within Amric roared to the surface in response to something out there that he could not see. Each time it would gibber and bristle at the unseen threat, making his entire body tingle with tension, and then it would slowly subside. More than once, he caught Bellimar’s penetrating red eyes, out in the darkness, following their progress with an inhuman hunger.
In the earlier ride from the crown of rock to the hive, they had taken a circuitous route to conceal their approach from the Nar’ath exodus. As they trudged the reverse route, they made no such effort. As a result, the return trip took almost the same time, despite being on foot. When the rocky crag finally reared up before them, stark against the subdued luminance of the clouded sky, Bellimar was already crouched at its base.
“I cannot go up there,” he called as they approached. “Blood has been spilled.”
Amric pulled up short, facing him. The hair rose at the back of his neck as he caught the rough, throaty character to the old man’s voice. “What have you done, Bellimar?” he demanded.
Bellimar laughed, and there was little humanity in the cold sound. His chin was tucked low, and beneath eyes that blazed with hunger was a mouthful of fangs gaping wide enough to engulf a man’s head. “I? I have done nothing, warrior.” He spat the last with a note of contempt, eyes narrowing to slits. “You can be assured that if I had done it, I would not have wasted their precious fluids like that. It is cooling, spent, the life in it already departed. Useless to me. It fans my hunger, but it is the blood of the living that truly calls to me like a siren’s song.”
The black mass roiled and seethed and seemed to lean toward him by some small degree. Amric tensed. His wilding magic screamed a warning, but it was unnecessary; he recognized a predator about to rush when he saw it. With an effort, he kept his hands from twitching toward his swords.
“Is this to be it, then?” he asked in a low voice. “Is Bellimar the man lost entirely?”
Bellimar froze, then the glowing eyes dimmed a bit and he pulled back into his mantle of shadow. “Not yet, warrior,” he said, and some of the guttural growl was gone. “Not yet, but all too soon.”
Valkarr drew abreast of Amric, with gleaming steel bared in both fists. He did not remove his gaze from Bellimar as he spoke to Amric, “Perhaps the men fought amongst themselves.”
“Or were set upon by some other horror out here,” Halthak put in, glancing about.
“Perhaps,” Amric agreed. “I see only the tracks of the men at the base of the path, over our own and those of the horses. Whatever violence occurred up there, they either brought it with them, or it found another way up.”
“Or it leaves no tracks,” Thalya offered, casting a pointed look at Bellimar.
“Whatever the case, it is time we found out,” Amric said.
Bellimar retreated into the darkness and agreed to remain below until called. Amric went first, swords drawn. He felt the weight of the vampire’s gaze pressing at his back until the curve of the path took him out of sight. He reached the peak and stepped into the broad crown of rock, dropping into a low crouch. Valkarr and Sariel joined him an instant later.
All was quiet. Too quiet, he decided. The pool of water was undisturbed, an unbroken mirror nestled at one end. The thin copse of trees stood untouched by any breeze, and six of the seven men were sheltered there in various states of repose. Two sat with their backs to the boles of trees, heads bowed, and the other four were lying on their sides with their heads resting on their arms. Of the seventh, there was no sign. Amric studied the scene for a long moment. They were too still. No rustle of breath, no twitch to discourage a persistent insect, no slight stirring to find a more comfortable position on the ground. Not a single chest rose and fell to indicate life. These men were all dead.
Amric signaled to the others and started forward. Valkarr followed on his heels. Sariel dove into the underbrush and Thalya leapt up to the lip of rock and began to walk the perimeter in a half-crouch with bow drawn. Halthak put his back to the rock, clutching his staff before him, and Syth remained there with him, his jointed metal gauntlets curled into fists as he swept his gaze over the area.
The two warriors crept near the motionless bodies of the men. Valkarr stretched out one arm, and with the flat of his blade, lifted the bearded chin of one of the men sitting upright against a tree. Half-lidded eyes stared forward, unseeing, and blood seeped from a slit throat.
“No talon did this,” Valkarr commented in a whisper in the Sil’ath language. “Only a keen steel edge cuts so clean.”
Amric nodded, glancing around. Each of the other men bore similar marks, a single stab to the heart or a single slice to the jugular, and each was sitting or lying in a congealing pool of blood. “Efficient,” he remarked in the same tongue. “Each death by a single stroke, no bruising or defensive wounds. Even their expressions are serene. There is no indication these men had any time to fight back.”
Valkarr peered at the slack features of one of the men, then turned to study another. “Do these men look familiar to you?”
“Morland’s men,” Amric said with a frown. “I thought I recognized them earlier tonight in the hive, from our visit to that bastard’s estate. They are––or were––members of his personal guard.”
“Something is not right,” Valkarr said, lifting his head to scan around. “Where is the seventh? Could one man have done all this? A trained assassin, perhaps, who took them all in their sleep?”
Amric shook his head; he had no answer. An uneasy sensation was crawling between his shoulder blades. His friend was correct, something was not right here. He had the persistent feeling that they were being watched. The wilding magic stirred within him.
Thalya gave a low whistle, and the warriors rose to their feet. The huntress was standing at the far edge of the crag, across the shallow pool from them. She motioned downward. “I found the last one,” she called. “He is draped over the rock here. I think he is dead.”
She began to kneel, and sudden instinct screamed a warning to Amric. He shouted, “Thalya, no!”
The attacks were swift as lightning, their timing without flaw. Amric had taken half a step when a cloud of smoke erupted behind him. A slight gust of warmth caressed at his skin, and a sulfurous smell burned at his nostrils. Steel sang in the crisp night air, and Amric twisted with the reflexive speed only a Sil’ath warrior could manage. A talon of fire raked along his ribs, parting the links of his mail shirt like so much paper. Amric caught a fleeting glimpse of pale skin, an unruly white shock of hair, and delicate features twisted in a primal mixture of murder and ecstasy. He continued his spin, lashing out with his sword, and Valkarr stepped into a lunge of his own from a few paces away. There was a soft thump in the air as the assassin vanished in another swirl of smoke, and the warriors’ blades crossed in the space he had been.
Thalya started to straighten at Amric’s shout and then went rigid, her back arching as she was lifted to her toes. Blood burst from her chest, and she looked down, eyes wide with disbelief. A thorn of steel sprouted there, glistening red. The blade was withdrawn with a jerk, eliciting a strangled gasp from her, and she collapsed to the rock. The second Elvar assassin stood behind her amid a veil of smoke. He watched her fall, a feral grin alight on his narrow face.
“Brother, I am most displeased,” he purred. “Its vulgar bellow spoiled my clean kill.”
His twin appeared next to him in a dark cloud. He cocked his head at the crumpled form of Thalya. “No matter, brother. It is a long way back to the city. We can claim them all one by one, at our leisure.” He raised his voice, calling to Amric. “Our lord Morland sends his regards. He wishes it to know that it dies tonight by his decree. By now the city has fallen, but it must understand that our lord is most thorough and cannot permit word of his arrangement with the Nar’ath to spread.”
“Our lord is wise,” the other agreed. “Witness his justified caution in that it has not only survived the Nar’ath, but sought to steal away his gift to them.”
“Morland, that snake!” Amric snarled. “So he is the traitor the Nar’ath queen mentioned. He betrayed the city and his own men, his own kind, to those monsters!”
Just then, a strangled sound resolved into an incoherent scream of loss and rage. Syth rushed toward the assassins with a wild-eyed look of madness, and the violent winds whirling around him flattened the foliage and propelled him along in great bounds.
“Syth, wait!” Amric cried, starting forward. “We must attack together, or they will kill us all, one at a time!”
Syth gave no indication he had heard the warrior. He leapt to the ridge of rock and raced along it at a breakneck pace, heedless of any danger to himself. The Elvaren roared with laughter, their faces alight with their own madness.
“Come ahead to your death, fool,” one said, beckoning with a long, slender blade. “Now or later, it is all the same. You cannot hide from us, for we will be waiting in the next shadow you fail to check. We are creatures of the night––”
A wave of blackness rose over the edge. It flowed like ink over the rock and sent sinuous tendrils into the basin. The night air thickened with sudden, biting cold. A figure coalesced there, spreading a cloak of writhing shadows. Its eyes burned scarlet and fierce, furious and vengeful. Every living creature present knew it at once on some instinctual level; this was death incarnate, merciless and ravenous beyond measure. The Lord of the Night turned the full weight of his gaze upon the assassins, and the rumbling hiss that issued forth bore not the slightest trace of humanity.
The Elvaren gaped, their eyes bulging, and they both vanished in a flash of smoke.
Syth rushed to Thalya’s side and cradled her in his arms. Halthak splashed through the shallows of the small pool at a run, and threw his staff aside as he reached her. The Sil’ath warriors arrived an instant later, watching every direction for the return of the assassins.
“She lives,” Halthak moaned as he placed his hands on her. “But there is so much damage, and she is so weak….” He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating, and Amric’s senses tingled as the healer’s magic came into play. Syth cast frantic looks from Thalya to Halthak. Her breathing was quick and shallow, coming in tiny, bubbling gasps. The flow of blood from her chest slowed as the healer worked, but did not stop, and the wound shrank somewhat but remained open.
The warrior ground his teeth in helpless fury. On sudden impulse, he closed his eyes and focused on sending energy to the healer, offering it gently for his own use. The wilding magic flared in response, and he heard Halthak gasp. The hum of the healing magic against Amric’s senses intensified.
A minute went by, then two. At long last the Half-Ork sagged back with a groan, and Amric’s eyes snapped open. When Halthak looked up, his expression was tormented.
“No,” Syth whispered.
“I am so sorry,” Halthak said. “The strike was true, she is too far gone. There is not enough of her own spark left in her to fan back into a flame. I can die with her, but I cannot save her. I have given her a few more moments, but it is all I can do.”
Syth swallowed and nodded, and Halthak fell back against the rock, putting his head in his hands. Valkarr and Sariel each gripped him on the shoulders, their faces stony as they stared down at the huntress.
Syth continued to hold her, rocking slowly in place. Thalya drew in a ragged breath, and her eyes fluttered open. They glistened like emeralds as she looked up at him. “Syth,” she breathed.
He opened his mouth to reply, but his voice cracked and the words were lost. Thalya gave a wan smile.
“I wish we had more time, love,” she murmured. “I wish we had met sooner. Much… could have been different.”
“I would change nothing, but for the end,” Syth replied.
She smiled again, this time wider. Blood seeped between her teeth. “You see? You are better with people than you are aware, Syth.”
He made a choking sound and nodded.
“I need to speak with Bellimar now, love. Something… left unfinished.”
Bellimar, cloaked in shadow a short distance away, lifted his head at the words. Syth threw a scathing look at the vampire, but Thalya whispered something to him, and he gave a reluctant nod. He kissed her forehead and stepped back. Bellimar hesitated, looking at the others, and then glided forward. As he did so, the darkness writhing about him seemed to retract, to diminish somewhat, and the slender figure that knelt at her side could almost be mistaken for the silver-haired old man he had been. The bones in his face jutted a bit too sharply, however, and the fever-bright flames of hunger in his eyes were unmistakable. There was a tremble to his movements as he took her hand, and Amric could see that he was at the frayed edge of his control as he leaned down close to her.
Her drooping eyelids flared open at his touch, and her green eyes sought his face. They stared at each other in silence, and then her blood-flecked lips moved. “Do not prove me wrong, Bellimar.”
A few droplets of blood sprayed to his cheek at her words, and Bellimar flinched as if burned. The huntress held his gaze for a moment longer, and then her labored breath left her in a long sigh. Her hand went limp in his grasp, and she was gone. Syth uttered a moan of anguish, but Bellimar remained poised over her, motionless, his eyes searching her still features. He extended his other hand and closed her staring eyes. He started to withdraw his hand, hesitated, and then drew one slender finger along her cheek and gently tweaked her chin.
“Release her, monster,” Syth grated, his voice quavering. “I will not have her defiled by your foul touch. She would never consent to become a black fiend like you.”
Bellimar did not glance at him, but he laid her hand upon the stone and stood back. Shadow gathered to him once more like ebon sands flowing into an abyss. “Calm yourself, thief,” he said. “Even if I wished it, she is beyond my influence now.”
Syth growled something at him and knelt again by Thalya’s side.
“Wilding.”
Amric turned at the single word, spoken with iron determination. He faced the old man, who had fixed upon him with an unwavering gaze.
“Come,” Bellimar said. “We have much to do, you and I, and precious little time left to do it.”
“What is your plan?” the warrior asked.
“To do the impossible.” Bellimar’s eyes were like windows into a blazing forge as he shifted them to the fallen huntress. “And to fulfill her last request.”