Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,213

finest warriors––Innikar, Sariel, Prakseth, Varek and Garlien––depart to investigate the source of the disturbances coming from the mysterious north. The last time he would see some of them alive.

The images spun again.

Climbing a sheer face of rock, racing Valkarr to its peak.

The heads of human men and women swiveling to follow him as he strides through the streets of Lyden as a tall stripling. Pink, soft and civilized, they are; baffled and suspicious as they gaze upon him.

Gliding through the underbrush, long-spear in hand, moving like the wind itself as he and his fellow warriors stalk the ravening pack of greels that had been attacking homesteads on the outskirts of Lyden.

The images spun.

Three score swords raised to the sky by strong Sil’ath arms, hailing Amric as the tribe’s new warmaster. The throaty roar of the tribe as he lifts his own sword in response. No other upturned face glowing with as much pride as that of the previous warmaster, save perhaps that of his son and Amric’s closest friend, Valkarr.

Clasping forearms with his sword-brother, Valkarr, sworn in blood.

The images spun.

The thunderous clash of battle against an armored host, a remorseless foe of the Sil’ath. The terrifying and graceful dance of the battlefield. Outnumbered but victorious; the first of many such victories.

The images spun.

A cottage in the deep woods of strange and alien design. The door opening to spill sunlight inward. A shadow cast across the threshold.

The images spun and blurred and came to a jarring halt. The chilling presence of Bellimar seeped around him once more.

“I think I lost consciousness for a time,” Amric gasped, still reeling.

“Indeed, you did,” Bellimar said. “Not for long, but much has been accomplished in that time. And I believe I have found what we seek.”

The scene swam into focus. Or, rather, it tried to. He was looking upon the interior of the strange cottage, but his field of view shifted and flickered back and forth between two vantage points. The effect was dizzying, disorienting. There was an infant boy child in an ornate basinet; his was one of the perspectives. The other was an invisible presence circling in fretful motions above the child.

He was seeing the same scene from two different perspectives at once, he realized: that of the child––himself, as an infant––and that of his wilding magic. He concentrated, trying to sort out the juxtaposition of the images.

The child was very young, and was thin and weak from hunger and dehydration. As a result of one or both factors, there was a foggy quality to the child’s vantage. He leaned in listless repose against one wall of the basinet and his face was blotched red from earlier tears, but he was calm and clear-eyed now. Crying had done no good; help was not coming to his call. He was too young to take further action toward self-preservation on his own. Without help, the child was doomed.

The memory of the wilding magic was much stronger. There was a simple, childish quality to its thoughts as well, and its frantic concern grew to a fever pitch as the child grew weaker and weaker. It had broken the spell that bound them both in extended slumber, but it knew not what action to take from there. Some primal instinct nagged at it in persistent warning. Something was wrong, and danger was coming.

The magic reached out, questing beyond the bounds of the cottage, looking for aid of any kind. Life teemed in the surrounding forest, but it offered no succor. There was a myriad of tiny creatures, from insects to rodents, too primitive to be of help. It found a large life force, a sleek predator, but touching its mind revealed only boundless hunger and a resulting singularity of purpose, and the wilding shied away from it.

The wilding swirled in frustration and kept searching. Then it found them, a handful of minds moving through the nearby forest with resolve. They were hard and complex, but their camaraderie toward each other was palpable. The wilding rushed to contact them, but it found no kindred magic to answer back. Instead, they felt something of its clumsy attempt at contact, and the reaction was immediate and violent, a surge of rejection, superstition and prejudice. The wilding recoiled, frustrated at the failure. It withdrew until they were calm once more, and then tried again.

Slower this time, softer, the gentlest of touches. It focused upon the leader alone, soothing the rough edges of that creature’s distrust and fanning its curiosity. It led