Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,212

kept his eyes on the man, letting none of the dread he felt show in his expression. “What sort of trouble?” he asked in a crisp tone.

“Sir, I climbed to the wall-walk and saw it myself,” Gilsen said, still panting.

“Saw what, soldier?”

The man drew a deep, steadying breath. “There is a strange light in the sky, far to the east, like a huge fire in the forest, but hanging high above it instead––”

“Gilsen,” the captain interrupted gently. “We have a ravaged city full of dead and wounded, and our gates lie open to the next attack. Of what import is a distant light in the sky to us, at this moment?”

“Sir, that is not the whole of it,” Gilsen insisted, his eyes wide. “Between that strange fire in the sky and the light of the moon, one can see a fair distance over the countryside right now, despite the dark hour.”

Borric’s breath caught in his throat. “And?” he managed.

“The land to the east is crawling with all manner of twisted creatures. They are coming from everywhere, like before, like the night of the attack on the city gate!”

The captain’s spine turned to ice. He swept his gaze around the courtyard, at the weak and the wounded. Not now, he thought, not now. A bone-deep stab of pain coursed through his useless arm. “How many?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

The man did not appear to hear him. His words continued to tumble out, one atop the other. “Maybe they are all stirred up by this fire in the forest, the way they are gathering, so many more than before––”

“Gilsen!” the captain barked, bringing the man up short. “How many?”

Gilsen looked at him with a haunted expression. “Sir, if I had to guess––all of them. Many times more than before, too many to count, and they are coming fast.”

Captain Borric closed his eyes. He had read the knowledge in the young man’s face. Gilsen expected to die. The soldier felt––knew, with a certainty––that he was describing his own imminent death. The city was not defensible. The southern gate had been breached this night and damaged beyond their ability to repair in time. The eastern gate had been restored since the first assault, days ago, but it had only just withstood then against a smaller force than what Gilsen described was coming now. The mighty perimeter wall of the city, their beachhead against this savage and untamed land, was broken. The wild, it seemed, had decided to strike back at the hubris of civilization.

He was in charge of the city’s defense, and yet he knew he could not stave off its destruction this night.

But he might be able to save the lives of its people.

“Sound the alarm, Gilsen,” he said. “City wide, and be quick about it.”

“Sir?”

“We will take everyone we can find to the docks, commandeer every available ship, and abandon the city. We cannot stop them from taking Keldrin’s Landing, but if we make haste, we do not have to be here when it happens.”

“But Captain,” Gilsen objected, “there are not enough passenger ships for everyone. Most of the ships at the docks are cargo vessels, loaded with trade goods.”

“Dump it all over the side,” Borric said. “Keep only the foodstuffs. And we will need to take what provisions we can as we flee the city, as well.”

Gilsen gaped at him. “The lords and merchants will not like that, sir.”

The captain gave him a cold smile. “Then I welcome them to take up the issue with the city’s new residents. I, for one, will thank the fates if we survive long enough to lament any lost profits.”

Gilsen squared his shoulders and clapped fist to chest in a salute. His eyes crinkled at the corners, but no other sign betrayed the grin he was stifling. Borric returned the salute, and then pointed back in the direction from which the man had come.

“Carry my orders to the others,” he said. “Have the men sound the alarms. We need to get these people moving if we hope to see the dawn. Now, soldier!”

Amric rose through layers of darkness, cut by the unforgiving shards of memory. The fragmented images assailed him, whirling and spinning, disjoint and out of order.

Scaly Sil’ath features looking down upon him, regarding him with an eye that is skeptical but not unkind.

Fierce, flickering swordplay with his childhood fellows; a cry of triumphant pleasure as he presses the attack, ever faster.

Watching, troubled for reasons he cannot name, as five of his