Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,226

fellow, who came here with the swordsman,” Morland said. “Are you some relation of his?”

“I am that man,” the other responded. “I am Bellimar.”

“Impossible,” Morland said with a derisive snort. “That one was bent with age, with hair of silver. You are decades younger.”

“Only in appearance,” the stranger said. He smiled, and there was nothing of warmth in the expression. “I have fed very well, this night.”

The merchant blinked and shook his head. “Believe what you will, I have no time for such games. The city has fallen, and any who wish to live must flee Keldrin’s Landing immediately.”

“I know,” said the man who called himself Bellimar. He began to walk again.

Morland’s brow furrowed as he watched the stranger’s gliding, unhurried progress around the room. His tone hardened as he stated, “My personal guard will be coming through those doors at any moment to escort me to safety.”

“No,” Bellimar said. “I am afraid they will not.”

“And why not?” the merchant demanded.

The other chuckled. “Someone gave them the notion that you would be remaining here, instead. That you were, in fact, already dead.”

Morland’s breath caught in his throat. “My men would never believe such a ludicrous falsehood.”

“I prefer to call it more of a temporal inaccuracy,” Bellimar said with a dismissive shrug. “Regardless, some elected to leave, while others chose instead to remain and voice their skepticism.” He turned to the merchant with a smile, and the torchlight danced in his eyes, causing them to give off an eerie, lambent glow. “As I mentioned, I fed well tonight.”

“What do you want here?” Morland demanded, suppressing a shudder.

“I came to fulfill a promise, Morland. I came for you.”

It took a few tries before the merchant could make any sound pass his lips. “I do not understand,” he finally managed.

“Someone I cared deeply about perished by your hand tonight, merchant,” Bellimar said, and his tone had become as cold and hard as ice. “Which reminds me, I found some instruments you appear to have lost.”

The man’s dark robes fluttered and a pair of heavy, oblong objects tumbled across the ornate rug toward Morland. They took irregular bounces, and one veered to the side in a semi-circular path, rocking to a halt. The other rolled to a stop against his slippered foot, facing upward. Glassy eyes stared up at him, unseeing, and the mouths gaped in frozen, unending screams. The severed heads ended at the neck in ragged flesh, torn from their bodies by main force. The skin was sunken and bloodless, but there was no mistaking the slanted features or the white shocks of hair that had belonged to the Elvaren assassins, Nyar and Nylien. Morland stared in horror.

“They fancied themselves creatures of the night,” Bellimar mused with a dark chuckle. “My night. Imagine their surprise to encounter the Lord of the Night himself.” He tilted his head, studying the grisly objects. “Actually, you do not have to imagine. You can still see that surprise in their expressions.”

Morland wrenched his gaze away from the horrific sight at his feet and found something even worse awaiting him. Bellimar had not moved, but the shadows gathered to him in crawling, serpentine movements. The light in the great hall dimmed to a ruddy twilight as the remaining torches burned low, coughing and sputtering and fighting for life. The stranger’s smile widened to reveal rows of long, gleaming fangs. His eyes burned scarlet and feral.

An inhuman voice hissed from that roiling mass of shadow. “We will not be disturbed, merchant. There is enough time left to us to ensure that you feel a measure of the suffering you have caused. And I will make certain that you cause no more.”

Morland’s mouth worked in terror, but only a strangled gasp emerged. His breath frosted in a wisp before him.

“Come now, Morland,” Bellimar said, his words raw and guttural and pulsating with hunger. “You are a man of business. You of all people should know that, sooner or later, one’s debts must always be paid.”

The shadows rolled forward at a slow, inexorable pace, closing around him.

Morland found his voice at last, but there was no one in the mansion to hear the screams.

The ruins of Queln blazed with light and thunder as Amric and Xenoth fought. There was no longer any semblance of guile or strategy to their actions, and no more words were exchanged. None were necessary. Each man stood his ground, hurling his rage and determination at the other in the form of primal energies, seeking to