chapter 27
Amric stepped through the portal and onto a forest-backed hill that overlooked a scene out of madness. Black clouds gathered overhead in dense folds, colliding and joining together to form a titanic spiral that spanned the sky and turned with a slow, ponderous grace. A mountainous funnel began at the center of that great wheel and reached for the earth below. Lightning clawed at the clouds and wound its way down the dark vortex, and all of it was permeated by a sullen, volcanic red glow.
On the ground, the mist stirred and flowed in response, though whether it fled the storm or rushed to meet it, Amric could not tell. It moved in a way that seemed at once both erratic and yet somehow purposeful, stalking and then swift, like the prowling of some starving beast. The shattered ruins of Queln, the skeletal remains of a civilization long forgotten, pushed their way through the vapors. Whatever forces had torn the ancient city apart had done so with vehemence; some of the towering structures had been worn and humbled at the merciless hand of time, but many appeared to have been blasted apart, leaving naught to mark their passing but jagged boulders of marble strewn about.
Dark and twisted shapes moved through the ruins, skulking behind the veil of mist. They shambled in fitful bursts, emitting occasional shrieks and keening cries. Those inhuman calls were laced with pain, fury and madness, and they were answered by more inhuman throats in the surrounding forest.
The air itself trembled with a continuous roar of magic, and Amric’s knees buckled as everything hit him at once. A sense of desperation and agony threatened to engulf him, as if the land itself recognized its imminent demise and was laboring for each remaining breath.
The others stepped up beside Amric. He straightened, ignoring their sharp looks of concern. He released the Way he was holding open, allowing it to seal with a hiss, and a mental weight lifted from him.
The initial assault against his perceptions had been overwhelming, but he steeled himself against it. With the sensory onslaught came a rush of vitality, filling him until his breath caught and his nerves burned. Magic flooded this place, just as it had in the core of Stronghold near the Essence Fount. Where that phenomenon had been ruptured and raw, however, the flow of energy here was controlled, directed, bound. Amric concentrated and found he could sense the invisible currents converging from every direction. They ran like vast rivers through the ground beneath his feet and the sky above, rushing all around and past him.
They ran directly to the Essence Gate.
He knew it the instant he saw it. A massive arch of stone, it sat atop a high platform directly beneath the tip of the dark vortex. Broad, weather-worn steps climbed out of the mist to reach it. The Gate was wrought with sigils that burned with hellish light, and its interior churned and shone in a dazzling sea of fire. It could have been the ravenous maw of the gods, vengeful and all-consuming, and all of the magical energies were drawn to and into that luminous arch.
Amric’s fists clenched upon the hilts of his swords until his hands shook. That thing was feeding upon their world, holding it helpless as it killed, visiting untold suffering upon the land and its creatures. It was time to end this.
“Well,” Syth remarked, “I guess we know where we need to go.” He cast a dubious eye at the intervening ground between them and the platform, where misshapen figures skulked in the mists. “How do we plan to not die until we get there?”
Amric frowned in thought. He had planned to keep Xenoth occupied while the others destroyed the Essence Gate, but even at this distance he could see the massive scale of it. Their weapons would have little effect on the huge ring of stone. But perhaps there would be some other means of disabling it until the tools required to destroy it could be brought to bear. He turned to the others, driving the point of one flaming sword into the ground to free one of his hands.
“We will go in this way,” he said, indicating their path. “We stay together at first. I will do what I can to shield us from the Adept’s initial attacks, and I will draw his fire from there. Once Xenoth is focused upon me, slip away into the ruins. Stay in pairs, stay out of sight, and watch each other’s backs. Valkarr and Sariel, circle around and look for an opening to strike at Xenoth, or at least distract him enough to give me an opening. Syth and Halthak, make for that raised platform and find a way to disable the Gate.”
Amric received a chorus of grim nods in response. He faced Valkarr. “Maintain cover until you can strike with certainty. Remember Innikar, my friend. Xenoth does not give second chances.”
“Would you like to show me which end of the sword to hold as well?” Valkarr inquired with a fierce grin, though his eyes were hard and sober as they clasped forearms. “For those who have fallen,” he said in the Sil’ath tongue, his tone solemn.
“For those who remain,” Amric answered in the same language, completing an old Sil’ath exchange for luck in battle. He clasped forearms with each of the others as well, meeting their eyes, hoping that his gratitude and his pride in their courage was easily read there. He retrieved his sword from where it stood jutting from the ground, and they strode together down the hill and into the swirling fog.
They moved in loose formation with Amric on point, gliding through a ghostly landscape of mist and stone. Crags of shattered marble loomed over them, and piercing cries echoed all around, but nothing approached. The few creatures they passed near enough to see were too consumed with their own torment to pay any mind to the group’s passage; they snarled and shrieked and clawed at themselves, and it was a simple matter to skirt wide around them in the murk.
Amric raised frequent glances toward the Gate as they moved. He did not do so in order to maintain their heading––far from it, in fact. The construct was a persistent, thundering presence tugging at his senses, and he could have walked a direct path to it with his eyes closed. He kept a wary eye out for the Adept, to be sure, but it was more than that as well. Each time he looked upon the terrible majesty of the Essence Gate, it seemed he could see more of the forces at play around it. At first he saw faint currents curling toward and into it that he took for the capricious movements of the mists. They continued to sharpen with study, however, until they became phantasmal patterns of flowing light.
A hushed query revealed that none of the others could see the patterns, though asking the question earned him cool, appraising looks in return. He found himself mesmerized by the streams of light, and the more he concentrated, the more of them he could see. It was like another view onto reality, hidden behind––or woven into––the primary façade, as if he had somehow opened a second pair of eyes capable of seeing past the surface. Something clicked in his mind, and he realized he was looking upon the movement of primal energies, the raw forces of life and magic, flowing from every direction as they were drawn to and consumed by the Gate. Whether it was instinct or another gift of Bellimar’s knowledge, he did not know, but it felt oddly natural to look upon the world this way.
He should have felt a twinge of his old revulsion, he knew, to see the pervasive threads of magic. They were everywhere, tangled and intricate, unavoidable. They connected every living thing in a latticework of energy, from the smallest spark of life in a fluttering insect or a coarse blade of grass to the more pronounced auras of his companions. He had once thought to hide from magic, to spurn its touch in all capacities by strict choice, or to tolerate only brief exposure when required. He could see now how absurd those intentions had been. Magic was everywhere, surrounding them, inside them, inherent, inextricable. Bellimar had tried to tell him so when they first met, though he had not been ready to hear it. That force could be used for great destruction and evil, as he had seen, but at the same time it was the essence of life at its purest. Looking upon its beauty and complexity with newfound sight, it was hard to see it as anything other than a gift. He could scarcely bear to look away from it, even for a moment.
And so it was that he had an instant of warning when the first attack came.
Tendrils of power came snaking through the mist toward them. Silent and invisible, they did not register to his mundane sight, but to his magical sight they stood out in stark relief and writhed with violent purpose. They darted toward him, grasping, and he struck out with both swords on pure reflex. The naked steel blazed and parted the tendrils of light as it would flesh, and Amric felt a surge of savage joy. He ducked under a sweeping hook and slashed through the coil behind it, and the last of them blackened and faded.
He glanced back to find the others in wary crouches, looking around with expressions of bewilderment. They could not see such concealed attacks, and so it would be on his shoulders to protect them.
Mocking laughter drifted to them. “Crude, but effective,” Xenoth called. “You are full of surprises, wilding.”
The white mist billowed and swirled, ebbing back from either side of their path like waves pulling at the shore. A huge tunnel opened in the fog, giving them a clear line of sight all the way to the foot of the stairs which led to the raised platform upon which the Gate rested. Only one thing obstructed their path, a lone figure in black robes with arms spread to part the gathering mists.
“There is no need for this, Adept,” Amric shouted. “No need for further destruction and death. You have no place in this world, and we want no part of yours. Shut down the Gate and leave here forever.”
“You are wrong on all counts, boy,” Xenoth sneered in response. “You may want nothing of my world, but it is still the world that birthed you. For it to live on, it requires all that this one has to give. As for my place, as you put it––” Flame erupted from his hands and curled up his arms. “My place is wherever I choose to set foot.”
Xenoth threw his hands forward and sent gouts of fire hurtling toward Amric.
Borric paced the docks, and with each heavy stride he lowered a booted heel with a sharp report. He bellowed orders to his tired men as he moved, punctuating his imperatives with the occasional cuff or shove to spur greater haste. Hard at work alongside the city guard were a number of men from the private forces of the lords and merchants. Some had seen the necessity of his plan, and had contributed their manpower toward the salvation of all.
He scowled out at the mouth of the harbor, where flecks of lantern light bobbed with the waves, marking the staggered departure of over a dozen ships. Others had looked only to their own needs.
He raked his gaze over the throngs of people crowding the docks and trailing away into the city. More arrived every moment, laden with their belongings. Borric shook his head. Piles of such possessions were mounting near the docks, where the people were forced to discard them before boarding the ships. Only food, people, and the clothes on their backs would be permitted; there was no room for anything else. Even so, the entire operation was moving far too slow for his tastes. At any moment, he expected to see a swarm of fang and claw overtake the back ranks of the crowd, and the screams to begin. Borric swallowed, blinking rapidly to clear the sudden, vivid vision.
A shout rang out nearby, and Borric flinched, half-turning toward the sound. It was just the captain of the cargo ship, however, declaring it full. Borric looked it over and then nodded to the men on the docks. With efficient motions, they cast the lines free and sent the ship lumbering into the bay.
Borric counted the remaining ships for the hundredth time that night, weighing them against the straggling multitudes of people. He pursed his lips. He was no seaman, but by his rough estimations it would be a close thing indeed. Even purged of their trade goods as well as anything else that could be sacrificed for space or weight, many of the vessels were already riding quite low in the water, overburdened with human cargo.
And the stream of people continued, disgorged from the city at a maddening pace.
Borric turned on his heel and thundered down the docks, raising his voice to a bellow again.
Amric ducked behind a crumbled wall as a spray of rock showered down around him. He leaned against the cool, pitted stone, panting for breath. Xenoth’s scornful laughter followed him.
“Your friends have deserted you, wilding. What did you expect of such insects?”
Amric remained silent. The Adept’s initial assault had buffeted him like a thunderstorm, but he had held his ground long enough to cover the retreat of his companions. That short, furious exchange had almost been his undoing, however. Xenoth attacked and changed tactics with such speed that one strike had barely registered before the next was worming past his defenses from another direction. Only a combination of his instinctual wilding magic and the knowledge from Bellimar had kept those killing forces at bay for the seconds he needed to escape.
He looked down. One of his swords still burned bright with flame. The other had become a blackened, useless twist of metal, destroyed in deflecting some strange volley of sticky, clinging fire the Adept had thrown at him. He cast it aside.
“Come now, boy!” Xenoth shouted, a note of impatience souring his tone. “We have already proven that you are no match for me. Let us dispense with the games and finish this. You may have lived like a beast, but you can still die like a man.”
Amric ground his teeth. It was evident that he could not fight a defensive battle here. The Adept was a master at this form of combat, while he was only beginning to understand the fundamentals involved. Well, if the game could not be won, it was time to change the rules.
He drew in power, took a deep breath, and lunged out from behind the wall. The Adept was stalking toward him, and his hard features lit with triumph. Amric thrust out his free hand, fingers splayed, and focused his will. Ribbons of light writhed toward the man, and his foe’s expression turned to one of concentration as he warded off the attack with rapid motions.
“Now where did you learn that, boy?” Xenoth demanded, his brow furrowing. “I do not––”
And Amric hit him with the other attack. With the frontal assault to keep the Adept busy, he had sent a hammer-blow of energy to the side, around and through the ruins, looping back to approach from an unexpected direction. It struck Xenoth with a detonation of such force that Amric felt it like a blow to his chest, and it threw the black-robed man sideways. Xenoth lurched to his feet, livid with fury. He had opened his mouth to voice some new threat when Amric pulled a thick marble column down onto him.
It fell with a resounding crash, and a cloud of dust rose to mingle with the mist as tons of cold rock settled to the turf. The warrior watched, holding his breath. Had he managed to catch the Adept by surprise?
Sudden instinct flared in warning, and he dove to the side. A lance of flame sizzled through the space he had been only moments before, coming from behind just as his own attack had done. With an ear-splitting report, the center of the column exploded, sending jagged shards of marble the size of a man hurtling outward. Xenoth rose from the wreckage with teeth bared in rage and murder in his eyes. He took a step toward Amric, then staggered to the side and put his hand to the rock for support.
Good, Amric thought with grim satisfaction. The man was not invincible after all.
The moment of weakness was fleeting, however. Xenoth straightened and glared his hatred. “For that, boy, I will make your death a slow and painful one.”
The man spread his arms like black wings, his hands formed into claws. In an instant, Amric was fighting for his life. The attacks came from every direction, everything from towering walls of force to needle-sharp talons of fire. They rained down upon him, circled him, drove at him from all sides. They slammed at him, staggered him, bloodied him. He slapped some away with warding gestures, writhed between darts of death with cat-like grace, and sent his sword whistling through ribbons of fire to send them crumbling into ash. His blade, wreathed in flame, wove a glittering net around him, and his movements became a blur. He gave himself over to pure instinct, lost himself in the dance of battle, and gave his wilding magic free reign. The presence within answered his call, roaring to the surface with primal fury, and the two became one as never before. Amric lashed out with both steel and magic, faster than the eye could follow, in total unison of body and mind.
The moment seemed at once endless, poised forever on the edge of a razor, and yet over all too soon. The attacks ceased, and Amric spun to one knee at the center of a blackened crater. He held his sword held back and swept outward, and each breath seared in his chest.
Xenoth stood frozen, his eyes wide. He raised his hands again and hesitated for only the briefest instant, but it was enough. Amric burst into motion, darting from view and disappearing into the ruins. He staggered and clutched his side as he ran through the mists, but he wore a grim smile. They had each drawn blood in this first clash, and he was still standing. Moreover, he had seen something new and unexpected in the Adept’s expression, there in those closing seconds.
He had seen fear.
The men on the docks paused in their work, craning their necks back toward the city. Borric looked at the upturned faces. Their eyes were wide with apprehension, and shadows played across their smudged features, snared between the cold light of the moon and the warm light of the flickering torches. The captain turned to look as well.
He let out a slow breath. There was nothing to see yet. The city streets ramped down to the docks in a series of wide switchbacks and stairways carved into the slope, and the buildings and boulevards all stood dark and empty. The steady stream of humanity had slowed to a trickle and then stopped altogether, but many still stood flocked together on the quays, seeking places on the remaining ships. As Borric watched, a ripple of motion passed through the throng of people as the citizens of Keldrin’s Landing turned to gaze back into the city’s heart as well.
The eastern gate could not be seen from the docks, but all could hear the approach of the swarm. A low, unearthly sound had been building as a background hum for long minutes, and it was rising to a fever pitch. It reached a crescendo, and the crowd held its collective breath.
Something slammed into the distant gate with thunderous force, and the sound rang out in the night like hammer upon anvil. Metal screamed and wood split with a cracking report, and it seemed to Borric that the very ground beneath his feet trembled from the blow. The sound of the advancing swarm of creatures, muted before by the mighty city wall, was freed. The shrieking roar of countless bestial voices, raised together in mindless fury, echoed over the city.
Borric’s blood ran cold at the sound. There was nothing of nature or reason in that sound, nothing even of predators hunting for survival. Rather, it was a chorus of torment and madness, of pain and blind, lashing rage. The primitive part of his mind that screamed for self-preservation wanted only to find a deep, dark hole and hide in it until death had passed him by, but he shook himself with an effort. He looked around and found the people rooted in place, frozen with terror.
He climbed onto a nearby crate, drew a breath, and boomed a wordless shout as loud as he could manage over the crowd. The men and women blinked, startled from their stupor, and turned to him with blank stares.
“Faster now, people!” he bellowed. “Make your choice between the belly of a boat and the bellies of those fiends up there. One or the other will have you by the morning light!”
The crowd surged forward, pressing onto the docks.
He shouted, “Keep it orderly and help your fellows, or you will be swimming instead!”
Borric jumped down from the crate and pushed one of his men into motion, then stooped to help a citizen who had stumbled back to her feet. He strode down the docks, shouting orders and casting frequent looks up at the darkened city looming above.
Amric peered through a crack in the stone, watching the tall figure of the Adept move through the ruins with a wary stride. Without warning, Xenoth whirled and sent fire lancing into the mist. The warrior’s heart skipped a beat, fearing one of the Sil’ath had been found. After a moment, however, the Adept turned back with an angry oath, and Amric let out a breath of relief.
Xenoth stalked back and forth, scanning the ruins for his prey, but he did not roam far from the stairway leading to the Gate. Amric cursed. He had allowed the man to catch fleeting glimpses of his movements between piles of rubble, and though he had drawn occasional fire, the Adept had refused to be lured away from the platform. He had to find some way to divert Xenoth’s attention to such an extent that Syth and Halthak could slip behind him and up to the Gate. This was proving difficult enough, but it was only the first step. Assuming those two could find a way to shut down the Gate, the Adept would doubtless react by slaying them both and reactivating the device. Fundamental to the success of the plan was preventing Xenoth from taking such action, and Amric had to find the way.
He raised his voice and shouted, “This is madness, Adept. What gives you the right to end an entire world?” He then spun and glided away, staying low and out of sight.
Xenoth cocked his head, orienting upon the sound, and turned his steps in that direction. His hands twitched and clenched at his sides. “You know why it must be now, wilding,” he shouted. “The Nar’ath threat must be contained. They cannot be permitted to gain a foothold in Aetheria.” He tilted his head, listening. “But that only made the matter more urgent. This pitiful world has been scheduled for destruction for some time now, and therein, I think, lies your true question.”
Xenoth neared the tumble of rock and raised his hands in anticipation, but spun around in shock when Amric’s voice came from a different direction. “And your answer, fiend?”
The Adept gave a cold smile and a rueful shake of his head, and altered course. “Are you a fiend when you hunt game, boy?” he called out. “Are you a monster when you draw nourishment from the flesh of a lesser creature?”
“It is not the same,” Amric snarled in response. “You are planning the death of an entire world. Countless lives snuffed out.”
“So that countless others may live,” Xenoth insisted, his eyes narrowed as he searched the mist-shrouded darkness. “Aetheria is home to the greatest civilization in all the stars, and the wonders it has achieved throughout the millennia do not come without cost. Our world alone cannot support our needs. Sacrifices must be made. This world is not the first to give its life to the greater good, nor will it be the last.”
Amric knelt in a tall patch of damp grass, peering around a fallen column. There, near the foot of the stairs leading to the Gate, a flicker of movement. A pair of dark figures crept toward the foot of the stairs, hiding in the mantle of shadow in the lee of the platform.
“The greater good?” Amric demanded, putting all the scorn that he could muster in his tone. “All your achievements are steeped in the blood of innocents. No amount of noble intent can justify such a price!”
Xenoth barked a laugh. “Your perspective is skewed, boy. Doubtless the game you slew for sustenance would put a higher price on its own life as well, if it could.”
“It is not the same,” Amric repeated, flushed with anger. “A hunter takes what he needs so that he and his family can survive, but he takes one of many, and the herd replenishes. You speak of taking in order to achieve greater wonders, and of leaving behind a world barren of all life. There is no comparison.”
“Perhaps not,” the Adept growled, sliding around the end of the column to face Amric. “Then again, to us, perhaps your world is just one of the herd to be culled for our use.”
He lunged forward with a triumphant shout, and fire roared toward Amric. The warrior, awaiting his appearance, rolled to one side and sent a lance of light at the other in return. The blow shattered on a glittering shield raised at the last instant by Xenoth, and Amric sprinted further into the ruins. Xenoth spat an oath and started to follow, then caught himself and glanced back at the platform. Syth and Halthak were scrambling up the steps, twin shadows against the pale marble.
With a scream of outrage, Xenoth ran for the platform, unleashing strike after strike as he went. Lashes of fire tore great gouges out of the stone, and Syth and Halthak darted back and forth upon the stairs in a frantic effort to avoid them. A blazing whip sheared through a section of the stairway beneath Syth, and it began to fall away. He sprang from the falling segment in a prodigious leap, and sudden wind caught him at the apex, propelling him toward the stairs. Before he could land, however, a snaking blow hammered into him and sent him spinning over the side, into the darkness.
Amric reappeared in a mad sprint. He had doubled back when he realized that the lure had failed, and he struck out with a sledge of force that threw Xenoth from his feet. The black-robed Adept rolled into a crouch, facing the warrior with a snarl. He swept out with an arm, and a huge boulder ripped free of the turf and catapulted toward Amric. The latter dove to one side, raising a hasty shield to deflect the giant missile, but it collided with such force that he was sent flying back and to the side. He slammed into a marble boulder, and his world exploded in pain and flashes of light as he fought to retain consciousness.
Valkarr and Sariel appeared as if from nowhere, twin specters darting at the Adept from either side with flashing steel. Rather than try to stop them individually, however, Xenoth brought both fists together and slammed them to the ground, sending a circular wave rushing outward that threw them back into the mist. The Adept stood and extended one hand toward Halthak, still clambering up the stairs. The step beneath the Half-Ork’s foot exploded in a spray of rock and he fell, tumbling end over end on the punishing stone until he came to a crashing halt at the bottom.
Halthak spat out blood and pushed to all fours as Xenoth strode toward him. The cuts and bruises on his craggy face faded and vanished, and his breathing grew steadier.
“Ah yes,” the Adept sneered. “One of the insects. The scrub talent, the lay healer. I warned you once not to cross me, that I would make your end far more agonizing than you could imagine. Insect, you will find now that I am a man of my word.”
Xenoth put his hands together before him, and his brow furrowed in concentration. A ball of sickly green and black energy gathered there. It blazed and grew like a tiny sun of malevolent purpose. Xenoth growled with the effort, and his hands began to shake.
Amric rose to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. He found his sword a dozen feet away, its flame extinguished. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, as his wilding magic railed within him.
Halthak bared his tusks in defiance, and gathered to spring at the Adept. Xenoth lashed out, and the sphere of dark energy struck the healer full in the chest. Halthak was blown back onto the stairs with crushing impact. He slumped there for a moment, dazed, limbs splayed out on the marble steps. Then he lifted his head to stare at his torso in shock. The robes covering his midsection had been blasted away to form a gaping hole, and the edges of the cloth were blackened and smoking. Underneath, a circle of the same foul green and black energy was boiling and churning as it gnawed away at the Half-Ork’s torso. It grew, widening and deepening, chewing an ever larger hole in his bare, grey flesh. Halthak slid to his knees at the base of the steps and screamed, a wrenching sound of exquisite suffering, and his head fell forward in concentration. The growth of the cavity slowed, and it began to shrink as the flesh knitted around it. The green blazed even brighter in response, however, and the energies within swirled faster. The void began to expand again, more swiftly than before.
Xenoth gave a harsh, pitiless laugh. “It feeds on magic. The more you draw upon, the more you pour into healing yourself, the faster it will grow and consume you. And the more pain you will feel. A fitting punishment, I think, for a meddling insect like yourself.”
Halthak screamed again and fell to his side in the grass, curling around his injury. The Adept stepped back with a cold smile.
“I warned you fools,” he said. “I deal out retribution and death at the behest of the Council. It is all I do, and there is nothing on this pathetic world that can stop me.”
“Xenoth!” The shout brought the Adept around in a swirl of black robes. Amric stalked toward him, down the center of the tunnel carved from the mist. There was a slight limp to his gait, but his stride was purposeful. His sword jutted from one fist, and his storm-grey eyes were hard as steel. His gaze flicked to the struggling form of Halthak for an instant, and then returned to fix upon his foe. White flame, bright as the sun, burst out around the blade and kindled within his eyes.
“Bold words,” he growled. “Come prove them.”
Morland stood alone at a towering window in the great hall of his mansion, his hands clasped behind his back. His dark eyes were unfocused and saw nothing of the majestic scene wrought in colored glass before him, or the lush, exotic gardens beyond.
Distant, muffled shouts and a soft thump against the great double doors at the end of the hall broke into his reverie, and he turned toward that end of the room with an expectant scowl. The doors remained closed, however, and the sounds were not repeated. He muttered an oath under his breath and turned back to the window.
What was taking those incompetent fools so long, anyway? He had been very clear about the need for haste, but such reinforcement of the obvious should not have been necessary, in any event. His watchmen had brought back word that the townsfolk had returned, having somehow eluded the grasp of the Nar’ath, and that the city was being overrun by some new, overwhelming force. That news had spread like wildfire through his men, and there had been no hesitation to comply when he ordered them to prepare for flight.
The escape plan was simple, and one he had prepared well in advance in case this tumultuous night came to the worst. His stewards and private guards were to collect the most necessary of his belongings, and then escort him to the docks. There, he would signal in the clipper that was anchored out in the bay, a very swift personal vessel that would carry him away from this wretched place. It was time to pursue his fortune elsewhere.
The clipper was large, but it would not carry all those still in his employ. No matter. Many swords would need to remain on the docks anyway to keep the rabble from viewing his ship as their own salvation. He permitted himself a small, cold smile. He would simply tell those left behind that they would be well compensated for their bravery, and that he would send in the next ship once his was safely away. They were coarse men with credulous minds, after all.
Morland flinched as one of the torches sputtered and died in its sconce at the far end of the room. That corner of the hall fell into deeper shadow, and Morland stared for a long moment. Nothing moved there, and the tension eased from him. A sudden shiver caught him by surprise. When had it become cold in the room? He eyed the cavernous hearth, devoid of its usual fire at the moment, and then shrugged it off. He would be leaving soon; there was no time to bother with such worries.
He forced his attention to other matters, and wondered if Nyar and Nylien had completed their mission. It was a pity they had not returned yet. He had become somewhat accustomed to the twin Alfen assassins lurking about, and they had a way of turning up at just the right time, but it seemed unlikely this time. They were utterly mad, the both of them, but they had proven to be very useful tools, peerless at dispensing death at his command. They would be difficult to replace.
The merchant crossed the room, his silk slippers whispering on the vast, intricately woven rug. He stood before a window opposite the first, one that looked out onto a portion of his estate grounds rather than onto his gardens. He squinted into the darkness, and then sighed. He found himself wishing he had been less efficient about disposing of the farseer once the Nar’ath had retreated. The young fool’s talents would have proven useful in monitoring the progress of the creatures now invading the city, and in choosing his escape route. But alas, the lad had known or guessed too much regarding Morland’s arrangement with the Nar’ath, and he could not risk such rumors following him to more civilized regions. Plan for every eventuality, leave nothing to chance.
Another torch died with a hissing pop, and Morland whirled about. Three more followed in rapid succession, and he took an involuntary step back. The far end of the room descended into darkness so absolute that he could no longer discern the gleaming brass that bound the doors.
“Is someone there?” he asked.
Laughter, soft and rich, drifted out of the darkness. Morland jumped at the sound and then remembered himself. He was the lord of this manor, and there would be hell to pay if one of his men was interrupting him with anything other than news of readiness for their departure. He drew up to his full height with fists clenched and demanded, “Who is there?”
The blackness drew together like an eddying pool and formed into the shape of a man. With one long step, the man broke into the light, but wisps of shadow seemed to cling to him still, as if the darkness was reluctant to be left behind. He was a tall man, sharp-featured and broad of shoulder. He was clad in dark greyish robes, with hair as black as polished jet. He regarded the merchant with a faint smile upon his lips.
Morland opened his mouth, hesitated, shut it again. The stranger radiated cool assurance, and there was an august quality to his bearing that left the merchant with an involuntary desire to bend his knee before him. This was a man in the prime of his power, accustomed to rule. And, Morland thought with a frown, he looked somehow familiar.
The stranger began a slow stroll around the enormous room, considering the lavish furnishings in silence. He paused before a huge tapestry that brushed the floor at his feet and soared to the ceiling high above. He looked it up and down, tilting his head to one side, and then resumed walking. Morland took a few shuffling steps, studying the man’s profile.
Morland’s eyes narrowed. “I know you,” he said.
The stranger gave a soft laugh that sent a chill crawling along the merchant’s spine. “You may remember me. You may recall meeting me in this very room, mere days ago.” The force of the man’s gaze turned upon him, pinning him in place for an instant, and then slid away once more. “But you do not know me, merchant.”
“You bear a strong resemblance to that Bellimar fellow, who came here with the swordsman,” Morland said. “Are you some relation of his?”
“I am that man,” the other responded. “I am Bellimar.”
“Impossible,” Morland said with a derisive snort. “That one was bent with age, with hair of silver. You are decades younger.”
“Only in appearance,” the stranger said. He smiled, and there was nothing of warmth in the expression. “I have fed very well, this night.”
The merchant blinked and shook his head. “Believe what you will, I have no time for such games. The city has fallen, and any who wish to live must flee Keldrin’s Landing immediately.”
“I know,” said the man who called himself Bellimar. He began to walk again.
Morland’s brow furrowed as he watched the stranger’s gliding, unhurried progress around the room. His tone hardened as he stated, “My personal guard will be coming through those doors at any moment to escort me to safety.”
“No,” Bellimar said. “I am afraid they will not.”
“And why not?” the merchant demanded.
The other chuckled. “Someone gave them the notion that you would be remaining here, instead. That you were, in fact, already dead.”
Morland’s breath caught in his throat. “My men would never believe such a ludicrous falsehood.”
“I prefer to call it more of a temporal inaccuracy,” Bellimar said with a dismissive shrug. “Regardless, some elected to leave, while others chose instead to remain and voice their skepticism.” He turned to the merchant with a smile, and the torchlight danced in his eyes, causing them to give off an eerie, lambent glow. “As I mentioned, I fed well tonight.”
“What do you want here?” Morland demanded, suppressing a shudder.
“I came to fulfill a promise, Morland. I came for you.”
It took a few tries before the merchant could make any sound pass his lips. “I do not understand,” he finally managed.
“Someone I cared deeply about perished by your hand tonight, merchant,” Bellimar said, and his tone had become as cold and hard as ice. “Which reminds me, I found some instruments you appear to have lost.”
The man’s dark robes fluttered and a pair of heavy, oblong objects tumbled across the ornate rug toward Morland. They took irregular bounces, and one veered to the side in a semi-circular path, rocking to a halt. The other rolled to a stop against his slippered foot, facing upward. Glassy eyes stared up at him, unseeing, and the mouths gaped in frozen, unending screams. The severed heads ended at the neck in ragged flesh, torn from their bodies by main force. The skin was sunken and bloodless, but there was no mistaking the slanted features or the white shocks of hair that had belonged to the Elvaren assassins, Nyar and Nylien. Morland stared in horror.
“They fancied themselves creatures of the night,” Bellimar mused with a dark chuckle. “My night. Imagine their surprise to encounter the Lord of the Night himself.” He tilted his head, studying the grisly objects. “Actually, you do not have to imagine. You can still see that surprise in their expressions.”
Morland wrenched his gaze away from the horrific sight at his feet and found something even worse awaiting him. Bellimar had not moved, but the shadows gathered to him in crawling, serpentine movements. The light in the great hall dimmed to a ruddy twilight as the remaining torches burned low, coughing and sputtering and fighting for life. The stranger’s smile widened to reveal rows of long, gleaming fangs. His eyes burned scarlet and feral.
An inhuman voice hissed from that roiling mass of shadow. “We will not be disturbed, merchant. There is enough time left to us to ensure that you feel a measure of the suffering you have caused. And I will make certain that you cause no more.”
Morland’s mouth worked in terror, but only a strangled gasp emerged. His breath frosted in a wisp before him.
“Come now, Morland,” Bellimar said, his words raw and guttural and pulsating with hunger. “You are a man of business. You of all people should know that, sooner or later, one’s debts must always be paid.”
The shadows rolled forward at a slow, inexorable pace, closing around him.
Morland found his voice at last, but there was no one in the mansion to hear the screams.
The ruins of Queln blazed with light and thunder as Amric and Xenoth fought. There was no longer any semblance of guile or strategy to their actions, and no more words were exchanged. None were necessary. Each man stood his ground, hurling his rage and determination at the other in the form of primal energies, seeking to hammer his foe into oblivion. The Essence Gate towered above them on its high platform of stone, a continual, roaring presence that made the very air shimmer with the power being drawn into it. It looked down upon the battle below with an uncaring eye.
Amric gave himself over to the fury of battle, fighting on purest instinct, and his wilding magic was a fierce ally in tune with every fiber of his being. He became a melding of man and beast, of steel and magic, and he could not have begun to say where one left off and the other began. His sword flickered, slicing and deflecting too fast for the eye to follow, and he sent attack after attack lancing toward his foe.
He drove forward.
Without even knowing how he did it, he drew upon the rising tide of magic within him and all around him. He pulled it from the air that crackled and sang at the point of overload, and he reached deep into the ground beneath his feet to tap into the immense ley lines coursing there. He drew it in until his body burned and he thought he must surely burst into flame, and then he reached for still more.
Amric pressed the attack, strike and counterstrike at lightning speed. Xenoth’s eyes grew wide. Perspiration ran freely down the hard lines of his face, and his dark hair hung damp and lank across his brow. Step by grudging step, the black-robed Adept was forced to give ground. Amric bared his teeth in a wordless snarl and pressed harder.
He took another arduous step forward, and Xenoth took another back. He pummeled at Xenoth’s defenses in wave after wave. He felt the other’s shield crack before his onslaught and uttered a growl of triumph. Another slow step, like walking against a hurricane wind, and his foe’s heels were against the marble steps that led up to the Gate. Xenoth felt behind himself for the first step, and then the second. He stumbled and fell back against the cold marble, his motions frantic. Amric put another foot forward, pressing the advantage.
His legs wobbled beneath him.
The world tilted and dimmed for a sickening instant, and Amric shook himself with a curse. Not now. Not when victory was so close. He had been pushing too hard, running up against the mortal limits of endurance and punishment all night. Now it seemed that even Bellimar’s gift of borrowed vitality was waning at last. Even the darting presence of the wilding magic within him had grown sluggish and confused. His eyes fell on the crumpled form of Halthak, lying too still in the tangled grass at the base of the stairway by the Adept, and his jaw clenched. He thought of all that had been sacrificed for this moment. He would not succumb now.
He brought the world back into focus with an effort, but the damage had been done. Xenoth was on his feet once again, and there was an exultant glint in his dark eyes. Both men sent blazes of light lashing at each other, and for long seconds they traded frenzied blows, neither giving ground. Then Amric’s defenses faltered, his exhausted reaction too slow by a bare instant, and a coil of energy snaked through, rocking him back on his heels. The next blows fell less than a heartbeat later, before he could recover his balance, and they slammed him to the ground with crushing force. His sword slid away into the grass, its flame extinguished.
Abrupt silence fell over the ruins, except for the background hum of the forces being drawn to the gate and the labored breathing of the two combatants. Amric rolled to his side, dizzy and disoriented, his unfocused eyes rolling about in an attempt to determine from which direction the attack would come.
“You are even stronger than I thought, wilding,” Xenoth panted after a moment, bracing his hands upon his knees as he gasped for breath. “You would be fearsome indeed, if you had even a modicum of skill. But I warned you before about overextending yourself. This battle ends now.” The man straightened with obvious effort and started toward Amric.
“Damn right it does,” growled a voice from the ground.
A gnarled hand of pebbled grey flesh lashed out from the grasses at Xenoth’s feet and wrapped around his ankle.
“What the––” The Adept staggered, caught by surprise, and almost fell. He spun to find the fallen figure of Halthak looking up at him. The Half-Ork’s talons tightened, digging deep into the man’s flesh. Xenoth cried out in pain as his leg buckled beneath him.
“Fear not, Adept,” Halthak said, baring crooked teeth in a broad, grim smile. “Nothing down here but us insects.”
With a clap of impact, the healer released his magic into the Adept.
It was just as he had done to the mad Wyrgen Grelthus in Stronghold, reversing the normal flow of his healing magic and sending his own injuries slamming into the other. By that point, the boiling mass of greenish energy had spread to cover Halthak’s entire torso. Sickly black tendrils wound into his extremities, climbing his neck to his jawline and threading along the flesh of his forearms that showed past the sleeves of his robes. All of this withdrew as if time itself had reversed to undo the damage. The corruption retreated from his limbs and crawled across his chest, contracting to a burning hole of seething energy that dwindled and vanished. Halthak let out a gasp of relief even as Xenoth cried out in new agony. The Half-Ork released his grip on the man’s leg and scrambled back from him.
The Adept stumbled a few steps and stood with legs braced wide apart, swaying in place. A ravenous green glow lit his tunic from beneath, and blight crept up over his throat, darkening the skin there. His eyes bulged with disbelief as he clawed at his chest. His uncomprehending stare leapt from himself to the healer and back.
“It feeds on magic, I believe you said.” Amric dragged himself to his feet, leveling an iron gaze at the Adept. “The more you pour into it, the faster it grows and consumes you.”
Xenoth whirled to face him, fear flooding his features.
“Earlier this night,” Amric continued in a pitiless tone, “you also told me that there is a time and place to hold nothing back.” He gave the Adept a wintry smile. “I could not agree more.”
The warrior stepped forward in a lunge and thrust out both hands. He called up every last ounce of power he could muster and hurled it all at Xenoth. Light and flame roared at the Adept, hammering into him, driving him back against the marble stairs. The black-robed man howled and thrashed beneath the torrent, trying to deflect it or wriggle free, but it seized him and pinned him in place. Rather than incinerate him, however, the flood of energy was drawn into him, feeding the sinister affliction that consumed him. The blight spread at a fiery pace, green and black strands writhing across his limbs, gnawing and tightening with predatory swiftness. Xenoth’s cries rose to an inhuman shriek and then cut off abruptly. His tall form collapsed in on itself, then withered and burned. In mere moments it became unrecognizable as anything that had ever been human.
When only black ash remained, scorched across the pale marble of the stairway, only then did Amric allow the torrent to cease. He fell forward to all fours, the breath searing in his chest. His wilding magic swirled and darted in weary jubilation, and he allowed himself a small smile in response. Well done, my friend, he thought. Surviving to this point was all part of my plan, but I did not much care for our chances.
The magic pulsed back at him with a sensation very much like humor, and Amric blinked at the sly intelligence he sensed. It seemed there was more to this mysterious presence than he had realized.
Such matters would have to wait, however. Their work was not yet done.
He tried to stand, failed, tried again. Strong but gentle hands clutched at his arms and helped him on his third attempt. Faces swam before him: Halthak, his coarse features pinched with concern; Syth, bruised and battered but alive; Valkarr and Sariel, the visages of home. He mumbled something about the Gate and made for the platform.
Amric remembered little of their ascension to the Essence Gate. At the time, it seemed an eternity of climbing and stumbling, of lifting hands and distant, encouraging voices. The sounds rose in volume, became sharper, resolved into a single insistent voice, repeating his name over and over.
“No time,” he insisted, his words slurred. “Have to reach the Gate.”
“We are here, sword-brother,” Valkarr responded in the patient tone of repetition. “And we have found no way to shut it down.”
The statement caused a chill within him and Amric sobered, felt the fog lift in grudging stages. He blinked and looked around. His friend’s statements were true. He sat on the raised platform, and the others were gathered around him.
The Essence Gate loomed over him, and he was awestruck by its ancient majesty. The massive arch of stone towered sixty feet or more into the air, and each of the worn sigils carved into its broad surface was the height of a tall man as well. An aura of brilliant light surrounded the device, radiating from it in measured pulses as if the device drew long, ponderous breaths. The sigils pulsed with an orange-red glow to the same slow beat. Within the arch stretched a shining surface, almost too bright to look upon. Amric’s second sight showed rivers of energy running into that rippling aperture, flowing into as to a giant drain, never to return.
“We have found no controls, on or around it,” Valkarr said, his jaw muscles tightening as he regarded the mammoth device. “It continues to empty our world of life.”
“We thought you might be able to…” Sariel trailed off, ending with a vague gesture.
Use magic, Amric thought with a bitter grimace. Of course.
He studied the Gate, observing the movement of energies around it. His wilding magic stirred and quivered, though whether with trepidation or eagerness, he was not certain. Not knowing how to proceed, he reached out with his senses, seeking to touch it and better understand it.
To his surprise, something touched back.
An expansive presence followed that initial contact, flooding him with its awareness, and an eager murmuring pattered against his mind. Amric’s mouth fell open in shock. It was an ancient thing, timeless and patient. It was vast and powerful, but oddly compliant––and it was very much alive. It whispered to him, eager to yield its secrets, and there was a soft susurration at the back of his mind as it conversed with his wilding magic as well.
Hardly daring to hope, he inquired after the information he sought, and the Gate responded to that encouragement with a surging desire to please. A score of voices babbled at him in cheerful cacophony, and he struggled to single out one at a time to follow. In moments he understood how to return the mighty Gate to a state of quiescence, and he knew how to travel through it to Aetheria, the master world on the other side. He also knew, beyond a shadow of uncertainty, that there was no way to destroy or permanently disable the Gate from this side. A cold pit opened in his stomach.
The roar of the Essence Gate lessened, and its radiant corona diminished to a faint, clinging nimbus of light. The surface within the arch darkened until it no longer blazed like the sun, and instead resembled the moon-kissed ripple of the sea at night. The sigils dimmed until they burned low, like dying embers.
Amric let out a slow breath and exchanged a weary glance with his companions.
The Gate was dormant once more. Their world was safe, for the moment.