Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,228

into the man’s flesh. Xenoth cried out in pain as his leg buckled beneath him.

“Fear not, Adept,” Halthak said, baring crooked teeth in a broad, grim smile. “Nothing down here but us insects.”

With a clap of impact, the healer released his magic into the Adept.

It was just as he had done to the mad Wyrgen Grelthus in Stronghold, reversing the normal flow of his healing magic and sending his own injuries slamming into the other. By that point, the boiling mass of greenish energy had spread to cover Halthak’s entire torso. Sickly black tendrils wound into his extremities, climbing his neck to his jawline and threading along the flesh of his forearms that showed past the sleeves of his robes. All of this withdrew as if time itself had reversed to undo the damage. The corruption retreated from his limbs and crawled across his chest, contracting to a burning hole of seething energy that dwindled and vanished. Halthak let out a gasp of relief even as Xenoth cried out in new agony. The Half-Ork released his grip on the man’s leg and scrambled back from him.

The Adept stumbled a few steps and stood with legs braced wide apart, swaying in place. A ravenous green glow lit his tunic from beneath, and blight crept up over his throat, darkening the skin there. His eyes bulged with disbelief as he clawed at his chest. His uncomprehending stare leapt from himself to the healer and back.

“It feeds on magic, I believe you said.” Amric dragged himself to his feet, leveling an iron gaze at the Adept. “The more you pour into it, the faster it grows and consumes you.”

Xenoth whirled to face him, fear flooding his features.

“Earlier this night,” Amric continued in a pitiless tone, “you also told me that there is a time and place to hold nothing back.” He gave the Adept a wintry smile. “I could not agree more.”

The warrior stepped forward in a lunge and thrust out both hands. He called up every last ounce of power he could muster and hurled it all at Xenoth. Light and flame roared at the Adept, hammering into him, driving him back against the marble stairs. The black-robed man howled and thrashed beneath the torrent, trying to deflect it or wriggle free, but it seized him and pinned him in place. Rather than incinerate him, however, the flood of energy was drawn into him, feeding the sinister affliction that consumed him. The blight spread at a fiery pace, green and black strands writhing across his limbs, gnawing and tightening with predatory swiftness. Xenoth’s cries rose to an inhuman shriek and then cut off abruptly. His tall form collapsed in on itself, then withered and burned. In mere moments it became unrecognizable as anything that had ever been human.

When only black ash remained, scorched across the pale marble of the stairway, only then did Amric allow the torrent to cease. He fell forward to all fours, the breath searing in his chest. His wilding magic swirled and darted in weary jubilation, and he allowed himself a small smile in response. Well done, my friend, he thought. Surviving to this point was all part of my plan, but I did not much care for our chances.

The magic pulsed back at him with a sensation very much like humor, and Amric blinked at the sly intelligence he sensed. It seemed there was more to this mysterious presence than he had realized.

Such matters would have to wait, however. Their work was not yet done.

He tried to stand, failed, tried again. Strong but gentle hands clutched at his arms and helped him on his third attempt. Faces swam before him: Halthak, his coarse features pinched with concern; Syth, bruised and battered but alive; Valkarr and Sariel, the visages of home. He mumbled something about the Gate and made for the platform.

Amric remembered little of their ascension to the Essence Gate. At the time, it seemed an eternity of climbing and stumbling, of lifting hands and distant, encouraging voices. The sounds rose in volume, became sharper, resolved into a single insistent voice, repeating his name over and over.

“No time,” he insisted, his words slurred. “Have to reach the Gate.”

“We are here, sword-brother,” Valkarr responded in the patient tone of repetition. “And we have found no way to shut it down.”

The statement caused a chill within him and Amric sobered, felt the fog lift in grudging stages. He blinked and looked around. His friend’s statements were true. He sat