chapter 26
“Are you out of your mind?” Syth demanded.
Amric did not reply. He wanted to smile at the irony of the man’s words, but he thought it would merely agitate him further, so he refrained. He sat cross-legged on the ground, hands resting upon his knees. The dawn was still hours away, but the gibbous moon found its way at last through the thinning cloud cover to spill light down upon them. It gave the wasteland a bleak, otherworldly cast, and left Amric feeling like a wayward ghost intruding upon a world in which he was no longer welcome.
Caught between worlds, he mused, as ever.
Valkarr and Sariel stood at Amric’s shoulders, flanking him. They appeared relaxed, but he knew better. There was a tension to their stances that was only obvious to one who knew them well. Taut as bowstrings, he thought with a sad smile as he thought of Thalya. So many lost already. Of the warriors he and Valkarr had set out to find, only Sariel now remained. And countless more would perish if this did not work. Some distance behind him, the grating sound of rock against rock informed him that Halthak was still fretting at the crude cairn they had built, as far to one end of the crag as had been possible. It had taken precious time to dig even a shallow grave for the bodies and cover them with rocks, and to rake sand over the spilt blood as well, but it had seemed a judicious precaution.
Amric’s jaw clenched. He was about to put his life and his sanity in the hands of a creature consumed with demonic hunger. The less temptation at hand, the better.
Directly opposite him, perched upon the outermost rim of rock, was Bellimar. Whether he sat as Amric did, or crouched like some great black bird of prey, the swordsman could not say. A pallid face, a leering nightmare apparition, hovered amid the enveloping shadows at a height that could have been either. Red eyes remained fixed upon the warrior in an expectant stare.
Syth stepped in front of Amric, breaking his line of sight. The troubled winds swirling around the man sent cool night air washing over him. “This is a terrible plan,” Syth insisted.
“And yet, we have no other,” Amric returned quietly.
“You cannot let that––that thing into your head,” Syth spluttered, gesticulating at Bellimar.
Amric sighed. “You know the situation as well as I, Syth,” he said. “Xenoth means to activate this Gate device and destroy our world. It would take us several days to ride there, even if we manage to recover the horses. On foot, it would take us much longer, and we would be without the provisions we lost in the packs that left with the horses. The land between here and there is crawling with Nar’ath and worse, and we have seen almost no water or game. We could detour to Keldrin’s Landing for mounts and provisions, but the city may be overrun. If the Nar’ath queen words were true, we would be marching right into the bulk of her returning forces as well.” He lifted his eyes to the other’s face. “When we rode to Stronghold, the forest became more and more dangerous the further in we went. According to Bellimar, the ruins of Queln are deeper yet into that forest. And if we survive the journey, we would likely be too late to stop Xenoth.”
Amric watched objection and doubt war in the man’s expression. “Do not misunderstand me, Syth,” he said. “I would be walking even now, if there was no other alternative. But Bellimar says he has another way, and I have to try.”
“By laying yourself open to him?” Syth asked in disbelief. “Are you mad? Do you even believe he can make you a match for the Adept?”
“I never made that claim,” Bellimar interrupted, his voice a raw, guttural growl. “I mastered sorcery over years––nay, centuries––of study and use. No, I can only implant a minute portion of my knowledge in the time we have, and even at the height of my powers I could not have faced the likes of Xenoth directly. I can give you the means to seek out the Adept, and perhaps the basic tools to live a few seconds longer than you otherwise would. The rest will be up to you.” He grinned. “You have a penchant for the unpredictable, swordsman, and for surviving against all odds. You will need it.”
“And what of you, Bellimar?” Amric asked. “Will you not fight with us at Queln?”
Bellimar shook his head, the death’s-head grin fading. “Regrettably, I cannot. I can no longer endure the direct touch of sunlight, as my protection from its effects was removed with the last vestiges of my curse. Dawn is mere hours away now, and we will consume most of that time in your preparation. I would be of no use to you, there.”
Amric’s eyes narrowed. “Then where will you go?”
“There is something more I must do, before I become lost entirely,” Bellimar said.
Amric regarded him in steady silence for a long moment. “I cannot let you become a plague on this world again, Bellimar. I will not stop one monster only to free another.”
The red eyes brightened, blazing with defiance, and the shadows gathered and rose to spread over them all like huge black wings. Valkarr and Sariel dropped into crouches, swords flashing free, but Amric did not move. Bellimar shuddered, faltered, and then sank back, his eyes dimming to their low, feral glow once more. “It will not come to that, warrior,” he said in a strained whisper. “You have my promise.”
Syth stared at Bellimar, and then rounded again on Amric. “Look at him! See the monster he has become, the fiend of legend once more. If you let him in, how do you know that he will not strike at you while you are vulnerable? What assurance do you have that he will ever relinquish your mind once he is in there?”
“Only my word,” Bellimar hissed. “And the fading strength of my will. We should be about this, before I lose even that. Look to the east. Our time draws short.”
Amric followed his gaze. The clouds extended in a ceiling high above, churning like a storm-tossed sea. In the wasteland, the cover had thinned, and fitful gaps had appeared, permitting the light of the moon and scattered fragments of star-flecked night to show through. Far to the east, however, the clouds were knitting together, growing dense and dark. An ember glow flickered there among them, and Amric might have thought it the first touch of dawn if it were not still some hours too early. As he watched, he felt a curious tugging sensation, akin to the inexorable pull of the earth below him, but pulling at something within him toward that distant site. The wilding magic stirred, uneasy.
“Yes, you can feel it,” Bellimar murmured. “What has been a slow, steady stream is becoming a torrent. The magic of the land is being drawn to Queln, even stronger than before. It seems Xenoth has made good on his threat to activate the Essence Gate. We have very little time now. It may already be too late.”
Amric swung back to face him. “We had best get to it, then.”
Valkarr looked down at Amric, his lean, reptilian features pinched with concern. “You mean to go through with this, then?”
Amric’s jaw tightened as he nodded. Syth threw up his hands with a snort of disgust and stalked away.
“Very good, swordsman,” Bellimar said. “Let us begin.”
The vampire fixed upon him with a rabid gaze, and Amric met it, unflinching. Glowing red eyes narrowed to pinpoints, burning with new intensity, and then began a slow widening, like a rising pool of flame. The warrior felt himself drawn into their depths. Every instinct flared at him to break the contact, but he fought the impulse and forced himself to remain steady. Bellimar’s voice rolled out of the shadows, and the raw edge to it was gone. Instead it was rich and deep, smooth and purposeful.
“We will enter a trance state together, you and I. When you are ready, I will enter your consciousness. You must lower your defenses and allow me in. I must go deep enough to implant knowledge where you will retain it, at least long enough to serve you in your battle against the Adept.”
There was a soothing, hypnotic quality to the man’s voice, something lacing his speech that numbed the senses and made Amric’s eyelids grow heavy. It stole over him so quickly that he had to shake himself to alertness in order to focus upon what the other was saying. The wilding magic stirred within him, uneasy.
“With most anyone else, I could just force my way in,” Bellimar continued. His words fell in a steady, rhythmic cadence. “But you, my friend, represent a unique challenge. In any event, there can be damage incurred in such a boorish, aggressive approach. No, our situation demands an expert touch, and fortunately for us both, I can provide one.”
Amric drifted, sinking into the molten pools that were the old man’s eyes. There was a note of anticipation, of hunger in the vampire’s tone that triggered a small warning at the back of his mind, but it was a distant annoyance and easily ignored.
“You must realize that there is no small risk to me in this venture,” Bellimar murmured as his mesmerizing voice dropped ever lower. “While you know the necessity of this, your wilding magic may not react well to the perceived intrusion. If it acts on its own to strike out at me while we share your mind, the consequences could be disastrous for us both.”
Amric swayed where he sat, his eyes half-lidded.
“Are you ready, swordsman?”
He mumbled something that might have been an affirmative, and there was a hiss of muted triumph in response.
Bellimar entered his mind like a knife.
The pain was sharp and sudden, a sliver of ice stabbing into his skull. Amric jerked upright, and a bestial growl escaped through his clenched teeth. An unfamiliar presence writhed in his mind, something dark, cold and unclean. Foul tendrils snaked through his consciousness, lodging there with thousands of tiny hooks like a creeping vine laden with thorns. Anger rose within him, primal and powerful, burning away rational thought. His wilding magic roared its outrage. As if from a great distance, he heard the exclamations of those around him, and the keening edge of bared steel.
“Warrior!” hissed Bellimar’s voice, and this time it came from within his own head. “Amric! Remember our purpose here! I cannot afford to be gentle in the time we have, not against a mind as strong as yours. Even though you try to leave yourself open to me, it is like trying to worm my way in through a crack in a fortress wall. Call them off, or all is lost!”
Amric hesitated, the pyre of gathered power burning in his chest. He grunted something unintelligible, but the sounds around him stopped. He tried again. “Wait,” he gritted. His voice sounded harsh and alien in his own ears. “Do not interfere.”
“Good,” Bellimar assured him. “Now bring your magic under control. I do not like how it is eyeing me.”
Amric took a deep breath, and his throat felt dry and raw. He sent a pulse of reassurance to the bristling wilding, and calmed it over long seconds of effort. It faded back, grudging and tense, still vigilant. Amric had a moment to catch his breath, and then the cold presence of Bellimar flowed the rest of the way into his mind, eliciting another gasp of shock and filling his head until he thought it would burst. More dark coils slithered forth, and lancing pain followed each as it dug in. Amric clenched his jaw and waited.
The agony subsided, replaced by a numbing sensation that flooded his limbs. He tried to curl his hands into fists, and nothing happened. He realized with a flicker of panic that he was no longer in command of his own body.
“Now then,” Bellimar said with a chilling note of satisfaction. “Shall we finally get some much-needed answers?”
“W-what?” Amric demanded. His thoughts were scattered, sluggish, but he forced the fragments together.
The other’s dark presence swirled about. “Mystery is your constant companion, warrior. I believe the answer to one of those mysteries, at least, is buried deep within your own mind, in your earliest memories. I intend to find that answer.”
“Is this a betrayal, Bellimar?” Amric made no attempt to keep the threat from his tone.
Bellimar snorted. “Hardly. Now that I am established, I do not know that you could unseat me, but even so, I have no interest in a contest of wills with you.”
“Then what is the meaning of this change of plans? I thought we had no time to spare.”
“We do not,” the vampire confirmed. “But time runs at a different pace in here, in your mind, than it does out there. And I suspect the information to be gained will prove crucial to your survival in the days to come. I think we have to take the risk.”
Amric hesitated. A sting of anticipation mingled with icy dread coursed through him. “And what if I do not want to know?”
There was a pause, and then Bellimar said, “You may have suppressed an inner magic for the better part of your life, Amric, but I do not think you are capable of turning away from the truth, once you know of it. Even a painful truth.”
Amric grimaced. It was true. He had spent his life in open honesty with all he encountered, and most importantly, always with himself. Or so he had thought. Still, he had never been one to back down from what had to be done, no matter the personal cost. Could he do any less now?
“How do we proceed?” he whispered.
Bellimar made a pleased sound that contained notes of eagerness and what might have been admiration. “As I mentioned, I will not have the luxury of being gentle.”
The hooks constricted, and the pain began again.
Captain Borric stormed through the courtyard in the shadow of the city’s massive southern gate. The wounded continued to straggle in, and his soldiers directed those with the most grievous injuries to a hastily constructed triage station where a handful of weary physicians had been pressed into service. Borric paused at the station and surveyed their work for a moment in silence.
One of the physicians, a slender fellow with a tapered beard, approached to check on the crude sling supporting the captain’s broken arm, but Borric shook the man off with a dismissive growl. The grizzled soldier turned away and surveyed the courtyard.
His soldiers moved among huddled masses of the townsfolk, providing a show of strength and comfort to which they could cling. Very few of the citizens had dispersed deeper into Keldrin’s Landing yet. Instead, they sat in a stony silence punctuated by occasional moans and muffled weeping, as they waited for Borric’s men to finish scouting ahead to confirm that the black fiends were indeed gone. Most were careful to keep their eyes on each other or on the soldiers, and avoided looking at the bodies of the dead, carelessly strewn about the courtyard like leaves scattered before a storm wind.
Borric, however, forced his gaze to linger upon each and every one. Their deaths were on his hands, and he could do no less.
A shout interrupted his grim reverie. One of his men burst into view from an eastern side street, pounding along the cobbled stone of the courtyard toward him.
“What news, Gilsen?” Borric called.
“Captain!” the man gasped as he drew near. “More trouble from the east!”
The townsfolk nearest them gasped, and a low murmur built in the courtyard as word spread like fire through dry grass. Borric kept his eyes on the man, letting none of the dread he felt show in his expression. “What sort of trouble?” he asked in a crisp tone.
“Sir, I climbed to the wall-walk and saw it myself,” Gilsen said, still panting.
“Saw what, soldier?”
The man drew a deep, steadying breath. “There is a strange light in the sky, far to the east, like a huge fire in the forest, but hanging high above it instead––”
“Gilsen,” the captain interrupted gently. “We have a ravaged city full of dead and wounded, and our gates lie open to the next attack. Of what import is a distant light in the sky to us, at this moment?”
“Sir, that is not the whole of it,” Gilsen insisted, his eyes wide. “Between that strange fire in the sky and the light of the moon, one can see a fair distance over the countryside right now, despite the dark hour.”
Borric’s breath caught in his throat. “And?” he managed.
“The land to the east is crawling with all manner of twisted creatures. They are coming from everywhere, like before, like the night of the attack on the city gate!”
The captain’s spine turned to ice. He swept his gaze around the courtyard, at the weak and the wounded. Not now, he thought, not now. A bone-deep stab of pain coursed through his useless arm. “How many?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
The man did not appear to hear him. His words continued to tumble out, one atop the other. “Maybe they are all stirred up by this fire in the forest, the way they are gathering, so many more than before––”
“Gilsen!” the captain barked, bringing the man up short. “How many?”
Gilsen looked at him with a haunted expression. “Sir, if I had to guess––all of them. Many times more than before, too many to count, and they are coming fast.”
Captain Borric closed his eyes. He had read the knowledge in the young man’s face. Gilsen expected to die. The soldier felt––knew, with a certainty––that he was describing his own imminent death. The city was not defensible. The southern gate had been breached this night and damaged beyond their ability to repair in time. The eastern gate had been restored since the first assault, days ago, but it had only just withstood then against a smaller force than what Gilsen described was coming now. The mighty perimeter wall of the city, their beachhead against this savage and untamed land, was broken. The wild, it seemed, had decided to strike back at the hubris of civilization.
He was in charge of the city’s defense, and yet he knew he could not stave off its destruction this night.
But he might be able to save the lives of its people.
“Sound the alarm, Gilsen,” he said. “City wide, and be quick about it.”
“Sir?”
“We will take everyone we can find to the docks, commandeer every available ship, and abandon the city. We cannot stop them from taking Keldrin’s Landing, but if we make haste, we do not have to be here when it happens.”
“But Captain,” Gilsen objected, “there are not enough passenger ships for everyone. Most of the ships at the docks are cargo vessels, loaded with trade goods.”
“Dump it all over the side,” Borric said. “Keep only the foodstuffs. And we will need to take what provisions we can as we flee the city, as well.”
Gilsen gaped at him. “The lords and merchants will not like that, sir.”
The captain gave him a cold smile. “Then I welcome them to take up the issue with the city’s new residents. I, for one, will thank the fates if we survive long enough to lament any lost profits.”
Gilsen squared his shoulders and clapped fist to chest in a salute. His eyes crinkled at the corners, but no other sign betrayed the grin he was stifling. Borric returned the salute, and then pointed back in the direction from which the man had come.
“Carry my orders to the others,” he said. “Have the men sound the alarms. We need to get these people moving if we hope to see the dawn. Now, soldier!”
Amric rose through layers of darkness, cut by the unforgiving shards of memory. The fragmented images assailed him, whirling and spinning, disjoint and out of order.
Scaly Sil’ath features looking down upon him, regarding him with an eye that is skeptical but not unkind.
Fierce, flickering swordplay with his childhood fellows; a cry of triumphant pleasure as he presses the attack, ever faster.
Watching, troubled for reasons he cannot name, as five of his finest warriors––Innikar, Sariel, Prakseth, Varek and Garlien––depart to investigate the source of the disturbances coming from the mysterious north. The last time he would see some of them alive.
The images spun again.
Climbing a sheer face of rock, racing Valkarr to its peak.
The heads of human men and women swiveling to follow him as he strides through the streets of Lyden as a tall stripling. Pink, soft and civilized, they are; baffled and suspicious as they gaze upon him.
Gliding through the underbrush, long-spear in hand, moving like the wind itself as he and his fellow warriors stalk the ravening pack of greels that had been attacking homesteads on the outskirts of Lyden.
The images spun.
Three score swords raised to the sky by strong Sil’ath arms, hailing Amric as the tribe’s new warmaster. The throaty roar of the tribe as he lifts his own sword in response. No other upturned face glowing with as much pride as that of the previous warmaster, save perhaps that of his son and Amric’s closest friend, Valkarr.
Clasping forearms with his sword-brother, Valkarr, sworn in blood.
The images spun.
The thunderous clash of battle against an armored host, a remorseless foe of the Sil’ath. The terrifying and graceful dance of the battlefield. Outnumbered but victorious; the first of many such victories.
The images spun.
A cottage in the deep woods of strange and alien design. The door opening to spill sunlight inward. A shadow cast across the threshold.
The images spun and blurred and came to a jarring halt. The chilling presence of Bellimar seeped around him once more.
“I think I lost consciousness for a time,” Amric gasped, still reeling.
“Indeed, you did,” Bellimar said. “Not for long, but much has been accomplished in that time. And I believe I have found what we seek.”
The scene swam into focus. Or, rather, it tried to. He was looking upon the interior of the strange cottage, but his field of view shifted and flickered back and forth between two vantage points. The effect was dizzying, disorienting. There was an infant boy child in an ornate basinet; his was one of the perspectives. The other was an invisible presence circling in fretful motions above the child.
He was seeing the same scene from two different perspectives at once, he realized: that of the child––himself, as an infant––and that of his wilding magic. He concentrated, trying to sort out the juxtaposition of the images.
The child was very young, and was thin and weak from hunger and dehydration. As a result of one or both factors, there was a foggy quality to the child’s vantage. He leaned in listless repose against one wall of the basinet and his face was blotched red from earlier tears, but he was calm and clear-eyed now. Crying had done no good; help was not coming to his call. He was too young to take further action toward self-preservation on his own. Without help, the child was doomed.
The memory of the wilding magic was much stronger. There was a simple, childish quality to its thoughts as well, and its frantic concern grew to a fever pitch as the child grew weaker and weaker. It had broken the spell that bound them both in extended slumber, but it knew not what action to take from there. Some primal instinct nagged at it in persistent warning. Something was wrong, and danger was coming.
The magic reached out, questing beyond the bounds of the cottage, looking for aid of any kind. Life teemed in the surrounding forest, but it offered no succor. There was a myriad of tiny creatures, from insects to rodents, too primitive to be of help. It found a large life force, a sleek predator, but touching its mind revealed only boundless hunger and a resulting singularity of purpose, and the wilding shied away from it.
The wilding swirled in frustration and kept searching. Then it found them, a handful of minds moving through the nearby forest with resolve. They were hard and complex, but their camaraderie toward each other was palpable. The wilding rushed to contact them, but it found no kindred magic to answer back. Instead, they felt something of its clumsy attempt at contact, and the reaction was immediate and violent, a surge of rejection, superstition and prejudice. The wilding recoiled, frustrated at the failure. It withdrew until they were calm once more, and then tried again.
Slower this time, softer, the gentlest of touches. It focused upon the leader alone, soothing the rough edges of that creature’s distrust and fanning its curiosity. It led them to the cottage by small degrees, nudging dozens of minor impulse decisions in favor of a path that led there. It was slow, frustrating work, and the wilding magic fluttered in panic at every minute setback. At last, however, the group drew within sight of the cottage. The wilding reached deeper into its flagging strength, and, with a surge of effort, parted the veil of magic that concealed the structure from without. The group gasped in surprise, brandishing weapons and hesitating at this sudden wonder. The wilding froze. It was exhausted and spending all its remaining energy on suspending the veil. There was little it could do at that point but wait and hope.
The leader studied the cottage for a long moment, and then prowled in a slow semi-circle around it before advancing to the door. Inside, in the basinet, the boy child looked up as the door eased open to spill sunlight and a long shadow inward. A tall, powerfully built figure approached and loomed over him. The child gazed up into a strong, reptilian face, and the Sil’ath warrior looked down upon him with a dispassionate eye.
They stared at each other in silence for several seconds, and then the warrior turned to leave. The wilding magic pulsed once in a panic.
Amric, watching, held his breath. To an outside observer, the actions of the Sil’ath warrior would seem callous, but he knew better. The reclusive Sil’ath were assiduous in their efforts to avoid interfering in the affairs of the other races, and it would take much to cause one to cross that line.
But then the warrior paused, looking back with an unreadable expression. He took in the gaunt condition of the child, and the level, steady stare of his grey eyes. The Sil’ath grunted, and there was a note of admiration to the sound.
“You do not cry or show fear, little one,” he said. His words were in the Sil’ath tongue, and though the infant Amric could not then understand, the incorporeal Amric watching the scene did. “Do you have a warrior’s spirit?”
Perhaps in response to the gentle tone, the child reached a hand toward the warrior with tiny pink fingers outspread. The warrior’s answering grin was fierce.
“You want to live?” he said. “You shall have your chance.”
Scaly, muscular arms lifted the boy from the basinet. With a final glance around the place, Verenkar, Valkarr’s father, turned and left, holding the child against his broad chest.
The wilding magic flared with joy and relief. In its elation, it again brushed against the entrenched disdain for magic in the minds of the Sil’ath warriors. Acting on primal instinct, it quickly retreated back into the recesses of the child’s mind. There it curled in upon itself, shifting and tightening like the intricate coils of a complex knot being drawn through one another. Smaller and smaller it became, folding inward, and the child’s radiant aura shrank with it. Finally it dwindled to a pinpoint, inverted itself in a spasm of effort, and vanished.
The Sil’ath hunting party moved through the undergrowth, swift and sure. From the crook of one iron arm, the child Amric glanced back to where the cottage had been, and saw only the thick green shroud of the forest once more.
The scene dissolved and Amric drifted, stunned.
“It saved my life,” he said in disbelief. “Not just recently, at Stronghold and the Nar’ath hive, but from the very beginning.”
“That appears to be true,” Bellimar agreed. “I regret that the memories go no further back, but between this one and Xenoth’s statements, I think we can now piece together your origins.”
“Xenoth slew my parents, and meant to slay me, back then,” Amric said, his thoughts racing. “My… magic lured the Sil’ath to me, and then hid itself so thoroughly that no one––not even I––knew of its presence. And since the Sil’ath took me in, Xenoth never found me.”
“And where does that chain of thought lead you?” Bellimar pressed.
“Xenoth mentioned my parents’ defiance of his Council. They fled to this world, for some reason.”
Bellimar waited and said nothing.
“My parents are from this other world, this Aetheria,” Amric said at last. “And so am I.”
“All of which implies that you, Amric, are an Adept as well.”
He started to deny it, but his vehemence flared and then died. He thought of the power that had coursed through him at Stronghold when their lives hung in the balance, and how he had sought it out and called it forth at the hive. He had access to powers he had never known, that much was certain. He could no longer pretend to blame it on phenomena like the Essence Fount. But was he an Adept? He was not like that monster, Xenoth, killing indiscriminately and reveling in the use of power. And the Adept had called him a wilding, had used the appellation with scorn and repugnance. Surely that meant that they were nothing alike. If his magic was emerging again after lying dormant so long, however, could it be that he would become a creature every bit as loathsome as an Adept? Could a wilding be even worse?
He had been raised by the Sil’ath to abhor the use of magic, and now there was no question that he was infused with it. It was a part of his nature, hidden all these years, concealed among the very people who would never tolerate its presence. He was everything that the people who had saved his life and given him a home both feared and detested. Had Verenkar known back then, he would have left the child to die alone. Had Valkarr known, he would not have sworn brotherhood. The Sil’ath had been manipulated into accepting him. How many other ways had they been affected over the years, without their knowledge?
The wilding magic within Amric stirred and shrank back from the pain and confusion that coursed through him. He sighed and sent a wave of warmth and reassurance at it. This is no fault of yours, he thought. You acted to preserve us both.
Sharing his thoughts, Bellimar spoke. “You may be a unique form of Adept,” he said, “but you come from a world of Adepts and you wield great power. Whatever a wilding may be, you are also one of them.”
Amric heard the bitter emphasis on the last word. One of them; he was a descendant of the beings that had stripped Bellimar of his power, so long ago, and left him in a cursed half-existence. Not for the first time, it occurred to Amric just how vulnerable he was to the vampire at the moment. Before Amric could object, however, Bellimar continued.
“Fear not, swordsman. I spent countless years nursing my hatred for what the Adepts did to me, but no longer. Whatever Xenoth might have claimed, the Adepts of that time bore little resemblance to the mean-spirited creature we faced tonight. Just as you bear little resemblance to him. This tells me that, even if today’s lords of Aetheria have fallen to the depths of corruption, it need not be so. No, the Adepts struck down a monster, and I will not become that again.”
Amric was silent for a moment, contemplating the quiet certitude in the old man’s words. “How will you prevent it?” he finally asked.
“I know of only one way,” Bellimar responded. “There is something else I must do first, however.”
Amric caught a glimpse into the other’s thoughts, and he understood at last.
It dawned upon him as well that the drifting sensation had direction and inexorable purpose, that as they conversed, they had been floating upward. It was like rising to life-giving air from the depths of the sea, and when he broke the surface, he sagged back into his body in the waking world. He heard sharp inhalations and sudden movement on either side of him. The vast funnels of flame that were Bellimar’s red eyes withdrew from around him and then shrank back to hooded, blazing pits within folds of shadow.
“It is done,” Bellimar announced.
Amric gave him a sharp look. “What of the training you were to provide?”
“Done,” the old man answered with a twist of a smile. “Putting any false modesty aside, I am a master at this, and I accomplished much while you were unconscious. I was able to implant the knowledge to open a Way, as Xenoth did, but to Queln. It is always easier if you have been there before, and I experienced Queln long ago, before its majesty had faded so. You now have something of my memories of the place.” His smile broadened into a vicious grin. “And I did my best to plant a nasty surprise or two for you to offer Xenoth, when you face him. Please send my regards.”
Amric’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Bellimar. He was unnerved at the prospect of the vampire enjoying free reign in his psyche while he was defenseless, but there was little help for it now. Somewhat skeptical, he reached for the expertise to open a Way, focusing on his desire to reach the Adept, and to his surprise it came to him readily. It was as if it had always been there, a task that was now every bit as familiar as drawing his sword or riding a horse. His wilding magic roused and flared with eagerness at the prospect of calling up the power necessary for the act, but Amric shuddered at the violation. What else had Bellimar hidden within his mind?
Bellimar stared back with that infuriating grin, as if daring him to ask the question aloud. Amric ground his teeth, but held his tongue. He had agreed to the process, after all, in a desperate grab at salvation for his people and his world. He had known the risks.
Instead he said, “I thank you for your efforts, Bellimar. May they prove sufficient, for all our sakes.”
Bellimar responded with a solemn nod. “We must part ways now. The dawn is coming, and I have far to travel before I lose the cover of night.”
Amric pushed to his feet, and in the simple act he uncovered yet another revelation: his weariness was gone. The battles with the Nar’ath queen and Xenoth had left him exhausted in mind and body, but he felt as if he was somehow waking from a full night’s rest. He was not fully recovered, but he felt fit enough for the coming conflict. His brows knitted in puzzlement. It made no sense; his time locked in the trance had not been long enough to account for the change, and in any event, it had not felt in the least way restful. Then he glared at Bellimar with sudden suspicion.
“You shared more than knowledge,” he accused. “You gave me some portion of your vitality as well.”
“I can assure you that it came without price or taint,” Bellimar said. His grin broadened even further, and closer inspection revealed what the shadows had concealed until then. The vampire was even more wasted and gaunt than before. His eyes burned from sunken black pits, and his narrow face was so hollow-cheeked as to appear skeletal. When he smiled, the white skin tightened like parchment over a bleached skull.
“That is strength you can ill afford to discard,” Amric said with a frown. “It will make your curse all the more difficult to bear.”
“Indeed it does. Another reason I must be away from here.”
The vampire’s voice quavered slightly as he spoke, and the hunger rolled from him in palpable waves. They faced each other for a moment, and then Amric said, “So be it. Fare you well, Bellimar.”
“Fare you well, Amric.”
“What madness is this?” Syth cried, sweeping in from the direction of the cairn. “Should we not try to stop him? Thalya wanted him––”
“Dead or redeemed,” Bellimar interrupted with quiet conviction. “And though she could not know it, she may well have achieved both, in the end. Do not worry, Syth, the night is not over yet.”
The dark figure turned to depart, then hesitated, and swung back.
“She would want you to remember, Syth, that love is a gift, and its magic is in the giving and receiving rather than the having. What you were given can never be taken at the hand of another.”
“What do you know of love, fiend?” Syth snapped. “Are honeyed words supposed to soothe my pain?”
“No,” Bellimar responded with a sad smile. “But there will come a time when the truth behind them will restore a measure of your inner strength. Grieve until then, my young friend. No one can take that from you, either.”
Before the other could form a retort, Bellimar whirled away and flowed over the rocky edge in a cascade of midnight, vanishing from sight. Moments later, a shadow rose against the light of the moon and spread great black wings to wing its way rapidly north. Amric watched until it dwindled to a speck and was lost against the dark leaden grey of the night sky. Then he turned to Valkarr. His friend reached out and clasped his shoulder, but hesitated at the look on his face. One scaly brow ridge rose in question.
“There is something you need to know,” Amric said, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth. “About me. It may affect your decision to join me in what comes next.”
Valkarr snorted. “I think not.”
“Hear it first.”
The Sil’ath warrior folded muscular arms across his broad chest. “Are you going to tell me that you do not wish me at your side in this battle?”
Amric swallowed. “No, of course not. Never that.”
“Then it can wait until afterward,” Valkarr stated. “We all know what is at stake, and we stand ready, sword-brother. Lead the way.”
Sariel stepped to his side in silent accord. She lifted her chin and met his gaze with a fierce glint sparkling in her eye. Halthak drew up behind them, and though his knuckles were white as he gripped his gnarled staff, he stood unbowed and his features were set into hard, resolute lines.
Syth cast a final, lingering look at the solitary mound of rock. His hair and clothing fluttered and waved toward it, as if the ever-present breeze surrounding him meant to pull him back in that direction. When he turned back to the others, his expression was stone. “Let us finish this,” he said.
Amric drew a deep breath and concentrated, calling forth knowledge that was not his. He drew upon power that was, and it filled him in a ready, burning flood. In his mind, he held an image of the ancient ruins of Queln, and it was a composite of Bellimar’s borrowed memories and the remote scene he had glimpsed earlier behind the black-robed Adept. He focused his will on a point in the air before him, there atop the crown of rock, and he made a cutting motion with one hand. A tall seam of light appeared, and with another gesture it split open. Amric felt a tearing sensation, as if he was parting heavy cloth with his bare hands, and the effort drained at his energy, but the Way opened before him like a thick set of curtains spreading to reveal an open doorway behind.
Beyond the fiery edges of the aperture, he could see Queln.
Mist curled everywhere amid great tumbled ruins, flowing over, between and through. A roaring sound came to him, vast and unfathomable like the thunder of the ocean, and light of every hue danced within the mists. The air crackled with power, raising the hair on his arms and the nape of his neck as stood there. His wilding magic prowled and snarled with impatience in the recesses of his mind.
Amric did not look around at the others, but he could feel their stares heavy upon him. He reached over his shoulders and drew forth both swords. Power suffused him, continuing to build, and at his touch mystical flame sprang across the blades. The others flinched, and he clenched his jaw as he watched the heatless flame writhe along the naked steel.
Some knowledge, once gained, could never be forgotten. Some actions, once taken, could never be undone. That it was necessary did little to lessen the pain.
He plunged forward and through the portal.