Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,184

him a glancing blow as it rushed by him; it was not an attack but rather an incidental collision, but it was enough to spin him halfway around and send him sprawling. His shoulder throbbed like it had been struck with an iron bar as he rose with caution from the dirt, but the creature ran on without sparing a backward glance. Sharp cries from all around told him that others were not so fortunate in avoiding the stampede.

It seemed an endless number of the foul creatures had flowed around him when finally it ended, and the last of the attackers passed into the night. Borric rose to unsteady feet and looked around. More dim figures were rising from the grasses, and he saw a number of people pulling others to their feet or supporting them to stand.

Borric blew out a breath. He did not know why the creatures had so suddenly abandoned their prey, and for the moment he did not much care. He and the others had been granted a welcome reprieve, and he would make the most of it. He only hoped that the fiends would not return just as suddenly. Even if they did not, the open night held many other dangers for a straggling group of unarmed refugees. It would be a long and harrowing trek back to the city.

The townsfolk were already drawing together into small groups. He started walking toward the nearest. He held himself straight-backed and did his best not to hobble; his men and the citizens of Keldrin’s Landing would need him to be strong. He raised a shout for members of the city guard, and several voices responded at once. He allowed himself a grim nod of satisfaction, and then he began the process of organizing the survivors, calling out directions in a clear, commanding voice.

Amric rose to his feet, never taking his eyes from the man in black robes.

The newcomer raised one hand over his head to point skyward, and a brilliant, fist-sized globe sprang into existence high overhead, bathing the entire area in cold, blue light. The man surveyed them all for a long moment as they squinted against the sudden illumination. Then his face darkened in apparent anger, and he started forward, striding down the dune and toward them. He walked with a measured pace, his taut posture an incongruous mix of arrogance and prowling caution.

“I am Xenoth, Adept of the Third Circle,” he announced. “I am the Hand of the High Council of Aetheria in this matter.”

Amric frowned. He glanced at Bellimar and raised an eyebrow, but the old man gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. It seemed the string of names and titles meant nothing to him either.

The man drew to a halt twenty yards from them. The Sil’ath warriors moved away from Amric in wary crouches, spreading out to form a semicircle around the stranger, but he appeared not to notice. Instead, his deep-set eyes shifted in all directions beneath a dark brow as he seemed to be searching for some unseen threat.

“Which matter?” Amric asked, and the man’s hawk eyes turned to him.

“I seek the rogue Adept,” Xenoth said. “Where is he?”

“I am not certain of whom you speak. Perhaps if you could describe this––”

“Do not toy with me, boy,” the man snapped. “I felt the power that was employed right here, moments ago. Not even you simpletons could fail to notice a display of that magnitude. Where is he hiding?”

Xenoth’s tilted his head to one side, regarding Amric with narrowed eyes. “Yes,” he murmured. “I think you know something.” The man’s arms hung at his sides, and his long fingers twitched. “Time to share what you know, boy.”

Amric tensed, measuring the distance between them. His palms itched for his swords, but he wondered what good they would be against the likes of a true Adept. In his mind’s eye, he saw again the Nar’ath hive swallowed by the ravenous ground, so much like the thunderous collapse of Stronghold’s core; could he even close with Xenoth before the man brought such terrible power to bear against him and his friends? He hesitated. Perhaps he should be considering another defense entirely. But as he searched within for the mysterious, lingering presence, he found nothing.

“Forgive the lad,” Bellimar interjected, stepping smoothly in front of Amric. “He thinks with his sword arm, more often than not.”

“And what have we here?” Xenoth mused. A humorless smile twisted his sharp, angular face, and he raised one