Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,154

Sil’ath warriors, whose position he was nearing now, and dismissed them as inconsequential. She tilted her head upward and froze. Thalya stood upon the rim of the opening high above, silhouetted against the silver sky, her bow drawn and leveled at the creature. Amric hoped she had nocked one of her ensorcelled arrows, as he had a strong suspicion that nothing less would suffice. Another head peered over the edge; Syth’s, by the shape of it, though the height was too great to pick out his features.

The queen’s ridged skull swung back toward him. “That is no Adept. You bring the fleshlings of this world against me? What game are you playing at?” The last was almost a murmur, more to herself than to him. Good, he had her confused, and she was suspending action against him once more, at least for the moment.

His circuit of the room had finally brought him to the cluster of captives. His heart sank when he saw that all seven of them were human, not a Sil’ath form among them. Valkarr rose and stole to his side with a shake of his head. He stood so close that the words that followed were more breath against Amric’s ear than actual sound.

“The men say they are the last to survive,” he whispered. “They have seen no other Sil’ath, and no prisoners have been removed from this chamber.”

“Can they all walk?” Amric whispered back, barely moving his lips as he spoke from the side of his mouth.

“Some were injured in the taking,” Valkarr said. His dark eyes glittered with barely restrained fury. “But they do not lack for motivation. They are ready.”

“Good. I will continue around. Take them swiftly up the stairs when the moment allows.”

The Sil’ath warrior inclined his head in the barest of nods and stepped away to hold a hushed conversation with Sariel. Amric resumed walking, looking over the captives as he went. They had the look of soldiers, hard and rough-hewn, but they were also pale, haggard, haunted. Their sunken eyes met his as he passed, and he saw reflected there the specters of what the men had been through since their capture. I can promise you only the chance to live or die on your feet, as men, fighting for your lives, he thought. Nothing more, but let it be enough.

“Adept.”

It was Bellimar’s voice, the timbre of it hollow and strained. The vampire was staring at him from the edge of the pool he had been studying, the soft green glow writhing along the underside of his features. Amric moved toward him, holding himself to an unhurried stride. The Nar’ath queen, hissing to herself, twisted within her enclosure to follow his progress around the room.

Bellimar thrust out a hand as he approached. “Your knife.”

Amric eyed him, but drew his knife from his belt and passed it over without comment. The old man knelt by the side of the pool, watching the dark forms churning within its viscous, luminescent depths.

“Do not touch the waters,” he warned. “They are anathema to living flesh.”

His hand darted out with lightning speed, fastening to one of the cocooned forms and dragging it toward him.

“Tell me,” Bellimar said, “does not the shape of this one strike you as familiar?”

Amric felt a tightening sensation in his chest as he gazed upon the wrapped figure. At first it looked no different to him than the others, just another long, amorphous shape twisting and heaving with corrupted vigor. Then he saw it. Against the folds of soaked cloth-like material, he could pick out broad shoulders and powerful arms pushing at the silken bonds, a narrow waist flaring to flexing legs that were not quite jointed correctly for a man, and behind that a thrashing appendage that suggested nothing so much as a Sil’ath tail. There was understanding and pity in Bellimar’s eyes as he held the knife poised, looking a question at him.

“Do it,” Amric said between gritted teeth.

With a flick of his wrist, Bellimar swept the knife through the coils around the head. A glistening black wedge-shaped visage thrust its way clear, ebon eyes rolling against the sudden bite of the air. Amric’s breath caught in his throat, lodged there, and became stone. Prakseth. Burly Prakseth, jovial and honorable to the last fiber of his being. First to defend, first to comfort. Oh my friend, what have these monsters done to you?

Those malignant orbs darted from Bellimar to Amric. There was recognition there, of a sort, but not the