The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept (62 page)

Halthak uttered frantic cries of pain as the blue flames writhed all over him
. Bellimar was still suspended in the air, bucking and convulsing, his scream becoming hoarse as it echoed on and on. Sariel rolled on the ground and came up in a dead sprint, running parallel to Xenoth. Valkarr did the same from the other side. The Adept tracked their movements with calculating eyes.

Something broke in Amric’s mind
. The barrier that had cracked moments before shattered into razor shards, which then shattered into so much dust. He could not say for certain whether he drew forth the other within him and shook from it the blind, unreasoning fear that held it paralyzed, or whether it rose to meet him, buoyed by a rising explosion of power and vengeful fury. There was a jarring collision that shook him to the core as they joined, exquisite pain and pleasure interwoven in an instant, and the other suddenly filled his awareness. Before, when they had interacted, it had felt like two wary combatants circling one another, seeking some way to occupy the same space without breaking some fragile truce. There had been an impression of passing control from one to the other, a grudging relinquishing of self.

This time was nothing like before.

An alarmed part of Amric quailed at the sensation, at the
permanence
he felt in the action of merging; there would be no return to normality this time. That part of him felt dismay for what he had just sacrificed and loathing for the thing he had just become. In the end, however, that disapproving part of him was like a scholar clearing his throat at the center of a battlefield between colliding armies––just a small noise lost amid a maelstrom.

Power continued to surge and gather within him, building into a white-hot core that permeated his being until his very flesh tingled and he thought he might be incinerated if he drew upon more
. Amric flexed outward with the power in a jerking shrug, and the bonds that held him ruptured, cast aside like so many brittle sticks. He staggered as his boots hit the ground. Then he and the other within him turned their attention together to their foe.

Xenoth stiffened, some arcane instinct warning him of the force
s gathering at his back. He spun away from hunting the Sil’ath warriors, his eyes widening.

Amric hit him with everything he had.

He lunged forward with both hands extended, and from them leapt forth a torrent of white flame that filled the night, hammering into Xenoth. The black-robed Adept cursed and crossed his arms before him, lowering his head and bracing against the surge. Sand went up in great, spiraling plumes as the man was driven sliding backward a dozen yards across the ground.

The tenacious blue flame coursing over Halthak’s body dwindled and died, and the healer sagged to all fours
. Bellimar’s scream came to an abrupt end as whatever force was holding him suspended in the air released him at last. He crashed to the ground in a heap. Valkarr and Sariel each slowed to a halt, staring in disbelief at the display of power going on between them. Valkarr’s dark eyes threw back a reflection of dazzling white light as his gaze darted between his childhood friend and the river of eldritch flame emanating from him.

Amric clenched his jaw and continued to pour energy out into the night, sending it washing over the black-robed Adept
. Where it was coming from, he neither knew nor cared; he would burn Xenoth to a cinder, just as that monster had done to Innikar and tried to do to the others.

A deep fatigue, starting at the root
s of his senses, began to steal over him. He shook it off and continued, but his outthrust hands began a traitorous trembling. Perspiration beaded his forehead and ran into his eyes, and he blinked it clear with a growl. With a sinking sensation, he realized that the flames were not as bright, not as voluminous, as they had been moments before. His mind grew clouded, and a strange wordless clamoring intruded, trailed by a dull comprehension; it was the other within him, pulsating with panicked warnings.

The jet of flame sputtered and died, and Amric fell panting to his knees, more exhausted than he could recall
having been in his entire life. He raised his head with a monumental effort to regard the damage he had done.

A smoking crater gaped before him, twenty feet across and three times that or more in length
. The near end was a scorched ramp downward into a blackened pit, starting narrow and broadening to its full width at the bottom. The far end was scalloped deeply and polished to a dark, glass-like finish. The edge of the crater glowed like an ember thread, fading as it cooled in the night air.

At the center of the basin stood the black-robed Adept, unharmed.

Xenoth’s arms were still crossed before him, and he let them fall to his sides. His teeth gleamed in the soft, silvery light of the globe hanging high overhead. It was the grin of a peerless predator on familiar ground.

“You have
ample power, boy, I will grant you that,” Xenoth said, speaking slowly as if savoring every word. “But you lack the training to use it, and you exhaust yourself with such ineffective, unfocused displays. You very nearly killed yourself there and saved me the trouble.”

He began a purposeful march up the scorched ramp.

“Now let me show you how it is done.”

The Adept’s hands began to glow.

The black-robed Adept spread his hands out before him without breaking stride, and Amric found himself fighting for his life.

The attack came from every direction at once, bewildering, dazzling, faster than thought. Streaks of light leapt from Xenoth’s splayed fingers and arced through the sky. They fell toward Amric like sparkling gossamer threads, graceful in their descent, and yet some nagging instinct warned him that their touch would mean his death. He tried to rise from his knees, but the ground buckled and shifted beneath him like a live thing, throwing him off balance. His attacker made a curt back-handed motion, as if casting something away, and a crackling ball of energy the size of a fist came hurtling at him. He hurled himself to the side, rolling from its path and trying to keep a wary eye upon the falling threads. Rather than continuing past, however, the orb swerved to follow him in a sudden burst of speed.

Amric’s hand darted over his shoulder for one of the swords in a reflexive but futile gesture, but the fiery missile was too close
. He threw up his hands, as if mere flesh could somehow ward off the thing’s destructive power, and he braced for the impact. To his surprise, the crackling ball struck some unseen barrier mere inches from his hands. The blow sent a shudder of force through him, but the ball deflected aside. His relief was short-lived, however; the orb looped through the air in an unsteady arc and came at him again, picking up speed.

His mind raced, trying to discern how he had defended himself from the attack, but his thoughts were interrupted as something struck him from behind
. His back tingled and went numb, and he stumbled forward from the blow. The treacherous ground rippled and rose to catch at his foot, and he was sent sprawling. A flare of instinct warned him of the next attack, and he spun onto his back, thrusting out a forearm to block it. One of the deadly threads landed inches above his arm and pooled there upon an invisible surface. Several more followed, hissing as they struck. They began to spread, seeking the edges of the shield above him.

Amric gasped for breath, his mind muddled with fatigue
. The other within him was a constant, frantic presence now, yammering in fear.

If you can do better, he thought in weary frustration, feel free to step in
at any point.

A rumbling blow shook the shield around him, and then another, and then another
. Three of the blazing orbs wobbled away from him, dim for a moment and then brightening once more. They were expending their energy against his invisible shield, he realized. Their energy for his; small wonder that he felt more tired by the moment, then. How had Xenoth held up so well beneath Amric’s onslaught of magic, then? The Adept had emerged from the attack, uninjured and infuriatingly unperturbed.

Xenoth’s laughter floated to him.

“You cannot keep this up for long, boy,” the man called to him. “You are untrained, weary, slow to react.” As if to punctuate his point, another thunderous blow shook Amric’s shield and the cold, tingling sensation seeped through his right side. The glowing threads continued to fall above him, spreading and probing for weakness.

Xenoth chuckled
. “You see, boy, fighting with magic is like using any other weapon. It requires skill and strategy as well as strength. It requires discipline, and a lifetime of practice. To conquer your foes, you cannot simply hoist the largest sword you find and swing it as hard as you can. Victory goes not to he who roars the loudest.”

The orbs blurred toward Amric, and three more crashing strikes
buffeted him. His forearms, still raised above him, were quivering and numb. His breath burned in his throat and whistled between his clenched teeth. The presence within had subsided to feverish, insistent murmurings. Through a mental fog, Amric realized there was coherence to what it was saying. It was articulating a desperate plan.

“To be certain, there is a time and place to hold nothing back,” Xenoth continued
. By the direction of his voice, the man was moving around Amric in a slow circle. “However, in this case it is hardly required, since you are a minor threat at best.”

Amric ground his teeth at the naked derision in the Adept’s voice
. He knew that Xenoth was trying to taunt him, but it galled him that the man was right. Would Xenoth leave once he had slain Amric? Or would the black-hearted bastard feel compelled to finish Amric’s friends as well?

The presence was still adamant within the warrior’s head
. I do not like our odds, Amric thought back in grim response, but neither do I have a better plan. Everything in one strike, then. Be ready.

Three more hammering strikes rang against his invisible shield, and the glowing spheres drifted away in unsteady orbits
. Amric closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, and burst into motion.

Guided by the mysterious presence within, he
pushed
outward with explosive force, casting away the clinging energy of the threads. He surged to his feet, cursing both the lethargy of his movements and the way the world tilted and swayed around him. He found the dark figure of Xenoth no more than a handful of paces away, and he gathered his will for a single surprise strike that would encompass the entirety of the strength remaining to him.

The chilling smile upon the Adept’s hard, angular features was the first true indication that the plan had already failed
. Amric strained, drawing upon the power of Essence that surrounded him, the lifeblood of this world, and it responded to his call. Unlike the raging torrent of before, however, it gathered in sluggish, grudging response, as if sharing his weariness. Not enough, he realized, and not fast enough by half.

There was a flash of movement from the black-robed Adept that failed to fully register upon Amric’s dulled senses, and the impact
followed an instant later. A sheet of blinding light filled the warrior’s vision, and he was hurled backward. It felt as if a massive, armored war horse had hammered into him at a full charge. He flew through the air and slammed into the ground, sliding to a stop on his back.

He could not recall any sound accompanying the explosion, but his ears rang now with the echoes of a deafening roar and there was a warm trickle at each ear that could only have been blood
. The world wavered and fractured above him and darkness leaked through the cracks, but he struggled to hold the fragments together as he clung to consciousness.

An infinite instant later, the tall figure of Xenoth loomed over him
. His voice was alternately an intimate whisper and a distant shout.

“What is this, then
? Still alive, boy? Your instinctive defenses are impressive indeed. Perhaps there is something to be said after all for not holding back––”

The other within Amric struck out like a coiled serpent, sending a lance of white fire at Xenoth
from the warrior’s trembling hand. With a startled curse, the Adept slapped it aside and leapt back. It was the last feeble strike of the exhausted entity, however, and the incorporeal presence withdrew to swirl protectively around Amric’s mind.

“A wilding!” Xenoth exclaimed
, his tone heavy with both wonder and revulsion. “You are a
wilding
!”

Wilding
? Should that mean something to him? Amric tried to focus upon the word, upon his foe, upon anything at all, but it kept slipping through his grasp like quicksilver. There was a trio of staccato reports nearby, somewhere past the periphery of his vision. Xenoth flinched and turned away, raising his hands. A searing flash of light came from that direction, followed by a brief but intense wash of heat.

“Interrupt me again with such pathetic attacks, woman,” Xenoth snarled, “and I will come find you out there in the darkness
. Your life hangs upon my whim, and your end will not be pleasant if you try my patience further.”