Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,200

further death, but you mean to see my friends slain and my world destroyed regardless of my fate.” The warrior bared his teeth in a snarl. “Not while I draw breath, Adept.”

“That is easily remedied, boy,” Xenoth snapped, his features twisted with fury. “You may have caught your breath now, but I can convince the Council without the evidence you bring. Die, wilding!” On the last words, his voice rose to a frenzied shout. His arms flung outward, sending his black robes billowing, and his hands clenched, claw-like, around sudden writhing flame.

And then, it seemed to Thalya, everything happened at once.

Syth left her side in a rush of wind, charging toward the Adept. Valkarr and Sariel surged forward at the same instant with a throaty battle roar, silver light glinting from their blades. As quick as they all were, however, quicker still was Bellimar the Black. He launched at Xenoth like an ebon spear, silent and lethal in flight. The Adept fell back a step with a startled curse, twisting about to face these new threats. Fire leapt from his hands to lance at Bellimar, but the vampire flowed to one side in his swirling cloak of shadow, evading the strike. More fire followed, streaking after him in the night, and he faded back from it in sinuous, graceful motions, like thick black smoke cast before a storm wind.

A sharp gesture from the Adept sent a scything blast of air into the charging warriors, tearing them from their feet. Thalya staggered at the concussive force, though she was a good distance behind them by then. As she regained her balance, she felt a familiar tugging sensation through her arm and shoulder. She realized she had nocked the black arrow to her bow and drawn it back until the ridge of her hand brushed her cheek. She followed the shifting figure of Bellimar through his darting movements. The old man––the black fiend, she corrected herself––eluded streak after streak of fire, but each killing strike drew closer to him than the last.

Amric dropped to the ground and fell to all fours. Whether Xenoth’s concentration had lapsed or the warrior had somehow broken the bonds on his own, she could not say. His chest heaved with exertion as he pushed himself to one knee and began to rise, but the power cascaded from him in shimmering waves. With an incoherent cry of rage, Xenoth wheeled to face him.

For one fraction of a second, time stood still for the huntress. Every detail of the frenzied scene yielded itself to her with startling clarity. Syth and Valkarr struggled to their feet, dazed. Sariel was a crumpled, unmoving form upon the sallow ground beyond them. Bellimar, target of a lifetime of vengeance, crouched like a dark bird of prey with the talons of one pallid hand sunk into the sand before him. He looked at her, framed for that one perfect moment by the wickedly curved blades of the arrowhead. He flashed a smile, and the corner of one eye crinkled in a fleeting wink. And then, as before, he turned away in a deliberate motion and left himself defenseless to her.

The ensorcelled arrow strained at the bow, humming with eagerness. The missile had grown warm to the touch, and then hot, as if losing patience at her hesitation. It bathed her cheek with heat and threatened to sear the tips of her fingers. The last of the three, the last with a chance to fulfill its destiny, it had been meant for this moment since its creation. It sang at that moment with a singular joy of purpose.

And what of her, then? She had been waiting for this moment even longer, no less crafted and sharpened and aimed than the arrow itself. Why had she not already taken the shot? Why did her heart not thrill to the same sense of fulfillment, of fate? Why did her fingers refuse, even now, to release the black arrow to its deadly flight?

Xenoth lifted hands that blazed with fire. Amric was still rising unsteadily to his feet, and some detached part of her mind noted that the swordsman would not be in time to ward off the coming attack. Bellimar knelt with his back to her, motionless, waiting.

Thalya released her breath as she released the arrow, just as she had been trained to do. It struck her as peculiar that it came out almost like a sigh of relief, like a parting kiss to speed the weapon on