Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,155

kind he would wish. That glimmer was not a greeting for a familiar friend, but rather a sighting of prey. The jaws parted, and the mouth began to work furiously, open and shut, open and shut, as if shrieking without sound. Amric closed his eyes, sickened. When he opened them again, an unspoken agreement passed between him and Bellimar.

The vampire tightened his fist in the folds of material and raised the body partway from the waters as easily as if that hand had been empty. Amric slid backward a step and spun on his heel. One of his swords rang free with a sound like the chime of a bell. In a blur of motion he whirled, and his blade hammered down in a gleaming arc, cleaving through the black skull and into the chest. With one jerking spasm, the figure went still. Amric dragged his sword clear, and Bellimar laid the body gently at the edge of the pool.

Amric panted, struggling to rein in the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. He had known what to expect, he reminded himself. He had seen it happen to that hapless man when they arrived, and from that instant he had feared the worst for his own. In point of fact, he had known for weeks that death might be all he found on this mission. Soldiers die in battle, the rational part of his mind insisted, and it was, after all, far from the first time he had lost friends to the callous whims of war. It was never easy, would never be easy. His teeth ground in helpless fury. So why did it feel so different this time?

A wave of heat washed through him, and his vision went white at the edges. He fought it back, trembling and shaking his head to clear it. This was no time to succumb to whatever strange illness was plaguing him. He needed to retain control, as there were still lives to save. And lives to avenge. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles creaked.

He threw his head back, gasping for breath, and found the captives climbing the stairs. Some moved under their own power, scrambling weakly up the twisting steps. Others were pushed or half-carried by his Sil’ath warriors. He had to buy them a few more minutes. Whatever he chose to do with his own life, he could not commit theirs to the reckless act of vengeance that was burning at him from the inside. He met Valkarr’s stricken gaze as the Sil’ath hesitated, then ducked under the outstretched arm of one of the men to hasten him up the crude steps. He saw, Amric realized. He knows, and yet he does what must be done. I can do no less.

“What desecration is this?” the Nar’ath queen screeched. “Have the Adepts grown so craven that they cannot face us directly now, but instead resort to preying upon our young?”

He whirled toward her, baring his teeth. “They are not your young,” he spat. “They are not yours at all. They are my people.”

Her head drew back in confusion. “Your people? What matter to the Adepts if we harvest them before you harvest their very world? And what matter to such inconsequential beings? They are like blades of dry grass before the spreading flame. Their tiny lives are not their own, either way. At least we offer them existence, and purpose, where you offer only annihilation.”

The queen leaned forward once more, her eyes narrowing to burning slits. She swept out one arm in a violent gesture toward the retreating captives. “And when did the Adepts become concerned with the fates of such lesser beings?”

As before, he was not certain what reply to make and so he stood, seething with anger, and made none. This time it gave him away.

“False Adept!” she hissed in sudden accusation. Then she paused, cocking her head to the side. “No, you are indeed an Adept, for I can taste your power from here, and it stands apart from the weak magics of this world’s inhabitants as clearly as the full silver moon from the flickering stars. But you do not react as an Adept should, and you hesitate when no Adept would.”

He stood motionless, staring back at her. From the corner of his eye he watched the painstaking progress of the Sil’ath warriors ushering the weakened, stumbling captives up the stairs. His mind raced, trying to think of what sufficiently cryptic statements he could