The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept (75 page)

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.

The
Silverwing
carved through the waves. It was a squat and ungainly ship, wallowing in each trough and showing little of the grace its name implied as it carried its burden of refugees out into the Vellayen Sea. All the same, Borric decided as he stood on the aft deck and watched the docks of Keldrin’s Landing grow smaller in the distance, right at this moment the sturdy vessel was a thing of beauty to him.

The
Silverwing
was the last ship to slip away from the land, and thus it had an unobstructed view of the trap that had closed its jaws just behind them all.

In the half-light of the yielding night, the city teemed with motion
. Dark, twisted shapes slithered through the streets and crawled over the buildings. Some moved together in seething masses, like great swarms of angry insects. Others, larger and heavier, stalked amid their smaller brethren, brushing them aside as they moved. Still others appeared as glimmers of cold light, wraiths that flickered here and there like whispered tales. The creatures tore at the structures and raised their voices in furious shrieks that carried across the water to those on the boat.

Borric
watched, mesmerized. His broken arm hung in its sling, seeming to throb in time with the rolling motions of the ship, and he gave a shudder that owed nothing to the salty breeze. The escape had been a close thing indeed. It would be quite some time before he closed his eyes without seeing the burning hatred in their bestial stares or hearing the rasp of their talons on the docks as the sailors threw the last of the ropes that bound the ship to shore. He hoped that no one had been foolish enough to remain behind, hoping to weather the invasion. If so, there was nothing to be done for them now. He forced his mind to other matters.

What
had happened to drive the magical creatures of the area, normally so reclusive, to such lengths of madness? It was a question that had been asked often over these many months since the troubles began, but he found himself no closer now to an answer.

The worst of it had
always emanated from the east, somewhere in or beyond that vast, terrible forest. The ominous storm brewing over it was only the latest evil to gather there. Borric glanced in that direction, squinting into the distance, and blinked in surprise. The sullen, reddish glow on the horizon had diminished, and the black mantle across the sky had broken into fragments. Even as he watched, the storm clouds clotted together in lesser groups and continued their grudging dispersal.

The captain of the
Silverwing
stepped up beside Borric. The grizzled old sailor had a lean, pitted face that resembled a barnacle with a greying beard. One knobby hand extended to caress the ship’s rail in a familiar, unconscious gesture filled with pride. In all the chaos, Borric had not even caught the captain’s name, despite working shoulder to shoulder with the man for long, frantic minutes during their escape; somehow it seemed absurd to ask after it now.

“Did well for a one-armed man,” the captain said in a rasping tone
. “Pulled your load. You’d make a fair sailor, if you’ve a mind for it.”

Borric chuckled
. “Let us just say that I did not lack for motivation, especially there at the end.”

The captain gave a dry chuckle
. He jerked his chin toward the retreating city. “They are calming, now.”

It was true
. The frenzy of activity at the city was slowing. The creatures were no longer incensed and destructive, but rather were milling about. They appeared more restless and confused than angry.

“What d
o you make of it?” the captain asked.

Borric
shrugged one shoulder and shook his head. “Perhaps they only wanted to see us gone,” he said. “Perhaps we were never meant to be there in the first place.”

The captain gave a noncommittal grunt
. They watched for a time in companionable silence as each plunge and rise of the
Silverwing
carried them further and further away. The heavens brightened steadily with the coming dawn, and at last the creatures, no more than tiny motes in the distance by then, melted away into the ravaged structures of the city to take cover from the day.

“I
am told that you are in command here,” the sea captain said. There was a question behind the words.

Borric, erstwhile captain of the city guard for
Keldrin’s Landing, rumbled a laugh that began in his belly. “No sir,” he said with a broad grin. “As of this very moment, I am just another soldier seeking safe return to my family and my home, having been away from them much too long. I am at your service for the duration of the journey, Captain.”

The old
sailor lifted his bearded chin in a nod, and ran another possessive stroke along the rail. Then he gave the weathered wood a pat and turned away, barking orders to his crew.

Borric
remained on the aft deck for quite some time. He stood there, unmoving, until the city was no more than a hint of shadow against the sweeping majesty of the coastline. He stood there until the ghostly fingers of dawn spread across the sky, and the new day began at last in a crown of gold on the eastern horizon.

Only then did he
turn away as well.

Bellimar sat cross-legged on the huge expanse of ornate rug in the great hall of Morland’s estate. To his left, a pool of crimson seeped into the lavish material, casting a spreading shadow across the rich colors of its pattern. He did not spare it a glance. That work was done, and nothing remained there to hold his interest. To his right, a long, golden sliver of light stretched across the rug where the morning sun knifed its way between the heavy drapes that otherwise masked the towering window. His eyes traveled along that fiery line to where it passed within a hand’s breadth of him. His skin tingled and crawled beneath his robes, as if his very flesh sought greater distance from the killing light.

It was strange to fear the sun’s light again
. He recalled when, all those centuries ago, he had forsaken such mundane pleasures as admiring the splendor of a sunrise in favor of a darker path, the path to power. After the Adepts struck him down and twisted his nature with their magic, he had been able to bear its touch once more; there had been some pain, certainly, but no lasting damage. He had been far too consumed with regaining his power and solving the mystery of what they had done to him, however, to waste time on such trivial victories. He found it ironic that now, with the restraints imposed so long ago lifting at last and his power rapidly returning, he craved most what was forever lost to him.

His hunger surged within, perhaps in response to his yearnings, and it railed against his inaction
. It spoke to him, not with words but with inviting sensations. It was low and fierce and insistent, calling for him to follow the deaths he had dealt tonight with thousands more, and then a thousand times more after that. He was ancient and powerful, and only the blood of the masses could slake a thirst as mighty as his. He was fearsome and indomitable, and he would grind the trembling thrones of the world once more beneath his dark, remorseless heel.

It stirred ecstasy and need within him, and he was swayed
. It burned through him like liquid fire, fuel for his ascension, and he exulted in the rapture of it. He closed his eyes, nostrils flaring, a cruel smile twisting his handsome features.

But he did not move.

With a twinge of regret, he pushed it all away, pushed it to the back of his mind and locked it behind a barrier of iron will. His hunger shrieked and clawed and hissed in impotent fury.
Why fight the inevitable?
it demanded, and it was no small part of him that roused in response to the thought. The barrier cracked, but held.

Soon it would be over
. No need to fight it much longer.

He summoned images to his mind’s eye
. Amric, dauntless and driven, radiating a compassion and resolve that lent strength to those around him. Halthak, whose innocence and heart somehow withstood all manner of darkness around him. Syth, lost and mourning, drawing time and time again upon a well of courage and empathy he did his best to conceal. Thalya, as a wide-eyed child and later as the woman who was in some ways still a child, driving her conviction deep into him until it struck home and could not be dislodged. Her father, Drothis, a kind man driven out of fear and duty to actions that did not suit him. There had been others over his many lifetimes, but these were enough. They had changed him somehow, here at the last, and he built his fortitude upon his memories of them.

He would not become the monster that they feared, that he himself feared
. He was strong enough to do what was required. All things must one day end to allow for new beginnings, he reminded himself. Sometimes it was necessary to have faith that a carefully planted seed would someday bear fruit.

Bellimar opened his eyes
. He stretched his hands out before him, and there was only a faint tremble before they grew still. His hunger clamored at him, alarmed, but it was a distant, muted thing, of no particular import to him now. An abiding sense of serenity stole over him, and he smiled.

It was t
ime to see the sunrise one last time.

He threw his arms wide in a sweeping gesture
. Across the room, the heavy drapes flew open in response, flooding the great hall with the brilliance of the morn. Golden light washed over Bellimar where he sat, and he gazed in wonder upon the beauty that shone down upon him. The demonic part of him went berserk, howling in panic. Every instinct screamed for self-preservation, to writhe away from the killing light while there was still time. He convulsed in involuntary response to that most primal of directives, but he refused to succumb. He gritted his teeth and held himself rigid, motionless.

The light of the sun assailed him like a living thing
, determined to seize him in its vicious grip and exact revenge for his centuries of defiance. It flayed at his flesh with relentless strokes. His pale skin cracked, blackened and burned, and still he did not avert his gaze. His shining black hair withered and fell from his head. Searing flame blossomed in his chest. His flesh began to fall away in flakes of black ash, and his robes sank inward as his tall form became wasted and skeletal.

There was le
ss pain than he had expected, he noted with detached interest; a small mercy, that. Falling ash obscured his vision for a moment, and he waited patiently for it to clear. His sight continued to darken, however, and the golden light contracted as if the sun drew back from him. No matter.

Rest well
, Thalya, thought Bellimar. Your mission is complete at last.

Then awareness faded
, and the cavernous hall stood empty but for drifting black ash and the fading resonance of death.

Amric lay stretched out on the cool marble of the platform, gazing upward at the calming sky. He knew he had been dozing by the fitful, uneven leaps of the sun as it climbed to its mid-morning height.

The immense shadow of the Essence Gate
fell across him. He did not glance at it. He did not need to. The Gate had not ceased its low murmurings to him since those first moments of contact, and he did not need to look upon it to sense its steady, quiescent thrumming. It was a marked transformation from the raging nexus of power it had been, but still it radiated deep, eternal patience that bespoke a readiness––an expectation––to awaken once more when called upon. Amric’s jaw clenched at the thought.

A l
ess distinct change, but no less real, was evident all around the Gate. The storm had vanished; the clouds above continued to thin, and they had lost much of their sullen glower. The white mist, insolent in the face of the rising sun, still clung to the ruins of Queln below, but the eerie cries of its tortured inhabitants had subsided. An idle breeze wound its way through the forest that encircled the ruins, like a rustling sigh of relief.

It had been
only a few short hours since the Essence Gate had been shut down, but the land was already breathing easier. Perhaps it marked the beginning of recovery. Even the pulsing rivers of energy far beneath him had begun to ebb somewhat. Several major ley lines converged here, and so Queln would always be a place of power, but it was no longer the crashing maelstrom of before.

Amric sighed
. He was stalling.

H
e rolled to his feet and stood. The others were resting a short distance away on the platform, farther from the Gate. Valkarr and Sariel were on their feet an instant after him, their expressions expectant. Halthak lifted his head and blinked large, owlish eyes. Syth was sprawled out with his head on one folded arm, and his chest rose and fell to a light snoring sound. Amric smiled as he looked upon each of them, but he sobered as he met Valkarr’s gaze.