Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,163

of its arms and ran by it, aiming a terrific cut at a thick leg as he did so. Once past, he did not glance back, but instead continued his run, hurdling a jagged piece of rubble and losing himself in the churning sand once more.

Behind him came the thunderous charge as the queen oriented upon the sounds of the momentary scuffle. He heard a thud as heavy bodies collided. There was a keening snarl from the queen, followed by the skidding tumble of the minion being cast to the ground. Amric chuckled to himself. Perhaps he could force the queen to destroy her own minions out of sheer frustration.

“Why do you not employ your magic?” she hissed. “The stink of it fills this place, and yet you do not unleash it.”

Amric frowned. What did she mean? Had he brought contagion from the Essence Fount in Stronghold with him, and she was somehow detecting its taint here? As if on cue with his thoughts, a burning sensation blossomed in his chest and a wave of dizziness swept over him. He staggered, gritting his teeth, and forced it back. She gave a low, harsh laugh, evidently mistaking his silence for some greater comprehension.

“Oh yes, it is well masked, but I was born to scent your kind. The Adepts have never before feared to abuse their power, so why hesitate now?”

Amric crept between pools that glowed through the haze like huge green embers buried in the ground. He worked his way toward the outer wall of the chamber. He froze as one of the Nar’ath minions shambled across his path. It was a short distance ahead and facing away from him. It stalked by, unseeing, a dim outline that faded back into the storm. He waited the span of several slow breaths, and then moved on.

The queen let out an explosive growl, and he flinched to hear how close she was. It was a discordant, dissatisfied sound, and he could not tell above the subdued howl of the sandstorm whether she was drawing closer or moving further away.

“Keep your secrets then,” she snapped. “But if you think to catch me in some ruse, know that we have developed certain defenses against your powers. Indeed, you will find us much more capable opponents this time around.”

Something in her tone rang hollow, and it occurred to him then why she maintained the obscuring clouds even though they seemed to hinder her as much as they did him. She feared him still. Despite her seething hatred, her awesome physical power and the scornful challenge of her words, she still felt he was a very real threat to her. Or rather, she feared the thing she thought he was. She was stalking him with the same caution, and guarding against being caught vulnerable in the open.

A trio of shadowy figures appeared ahead of him, and he tensed before he recognized the outlines of his Sil’ath warriors. The captives must have reached the top, and his friends had returned. They recognized him at the same instant, unwinding from their crouches. Valkarr drew near with a questioning look and mouthed a single word.

Plan?

They eyed him, expressions determined and expectant, eyes slitted against the blinding dust and sand.

Amric grinned back at them. It was time to bait a trap.

CHAPTER 21

Captain Borric strode into the cobbled street, while behind him his men hacked at the last of another pack of the black creatures. When it had ceased to move, the men wearily reformed their protective ring around him.

Borric raised a forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow, winced at the sharp flare of pain in his shoulder, and used the other arm instead with a rueful shake of his head. Every corner they rounded brought a new skirmish with the infernal creatures, and in this last encounter one of them had seized his arm in a grip like iron and nearly wrenched it from its socket in a frenzied attempt to drag him to the ground. Thankfully it had not been his sword arm injured; from the screams echoing up and down the streets of Keldrin’s Landing, he had not seen the end of his need to swing a blade this night.

He glanced around, using the pretext of scanning the area to take the measure of the fifteen men surrounding him. Their faces were drawn, haggard, frightened. They had cause to be. When the fighting began, there had been three times as many in Borric’s contingent. The men who