Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,188

pursing his lips. Then he shook his head. “Even now I cannot be certain. I could just kill you. Perhaps I should. Perhaps this is some elaborate trick.” He stared at Amric with distrust and hate in his eyes, but then his brow clouded and his gaze wavered. “No, I have to be certain. There can be no mistakes, this time.”

His frown of concentration deepened, and Amric felt a strange probing at the edge of his senses, as of a low sound just beyond his range of hearing that tickled at his inner ear, or a feathery touch hovering just above his skin.

“Remarkable,” Xenoth muttered again. “Very few full Adepts can conceal themselves so well. Did you truly learn this on your own, without tutelage?”

Amric remained silent, glaring at his captor. He still lacked the context to form a meaningful reply anyway, and if the man interpreted his reticence as indication of the presence of some powerful teacher or ally, then so much the better. Perhaps it would cause him to proceed with greater caution. The probing grew stronger, more invasive. It blossomed into hot, needle-sharp talons that plucked and pried at his psyche. Amric gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to flinch with each sharp new twinge. He could endure this violation, for he had endured greater pain. After all, it was all in his mind; it was not as if this attack would inflict any lasting damage, like a physical weapon––would it?

An eternity later, Xenoth rocked back on his heels and blew out a frustrated breath. The stabbing pains ceased, and Amric sagged against his unseen bonds. He hoped that the man did not notice the prolonged shudder that ran through his rigid frame.

“However you learned this trick,” said the black-robed Adept, “and whether you managed it yourself or it was laid upon you by another, it is magnificently done. I cannot pierce it.” The troubled lines on the man’s face hardened once more into a venomous resolve. “Fortunately, there are other methods available to gather the proof I require.”

There was a grey blur of motion at the edge of Amric’s vision, and Xenoth spun in that direction, raising a clenched fist before him. Bellimar’s hurtling form halted in mid-air, hands extended like claws, teeth bared in an enraged, frozen grimace. The vampire’s fangs, so carefully concealed all the time by restrained expressions and half smiles, were bared beneath narrowed eyes that glowed like red embers. Bellimar hung suspended in the air, straining in helpless fury toward the Adept. Xenoth, for his part, stroked his dark beard as he studied the vampire with cold, deliberate amusement.

“That is the second time you have intervened on the boy’s behalf, creature,” he said. “Shall we see if he feels the same concern for you?”

Xenoth brought his hands forward and together, as if plunging them into Bellimar’s midsection, though several yards still separated them. The old man convulsed, his eyes flaring wide in sudden shock. Then the Adept whipped his arms apart in a sudden ripping motion. A rush of energy washed over Amric like a warm wall of mist and was gone, dissipating into the air. Bellimar bent like a drawn bow, arching backward with his head thrown back as every muscle in his body went taut. The scream came an instant later, an inhuman shriek of agony.

“Stop,” Amric grated. “Stop whatever it is you are doing to him.”

Xenoth threw a glance at him, and his mouth quirked up in an icy smile. “Ah, boy, do not be a fool. This was the easy part. I have only just begun this one’s torment.”

Bellimar’s scream continued. It went on and on, rising into the night air to hang there unending, as if refusing to be bound by the need to draw breath. Amric added his own voice, shouting forth incoherent rage as he strained against his invisible prison.

“Perhaps I am not casting my net wide enough, however,” Xenoth said, his words vibrating with power as they cut through the din somehow without him raising his voice. “If this one’s plight does not move you, then we will try another.”

He turned toward Halthak, who had regained his feet on a leg that looked to be fully repaired. The Adept made a sharp gesture, palm up as if scooping something from the ground, and angry blue fire erupted from the wasteland beneath Halthak’s feet and crawled up his limbs. The Half-Ork uttered a cry of pain and dismay, and he staggered back, slapping at