Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,218

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