Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,3

toward the darkness, he screamed, “Sentries, to me! Strike this man down!”

Amric chuckled. “Sentries might be a generous description, given the job they were doing. Your crossbowmen are not coming.”

Vorenius spun back, gaping, to face Amric. “You killed them?”

“They were not slain, but disabled. And not by me.”

“Who, then?”

Amric smiled and raised one hand high in a beckoning motion directed beyond the campfire light. All eyes turned in that direction as a second figure detached itself from the night and stepped forward.

“Sil’ath!” one of the men exclaimed.

Halthak heard a collective gasp from around the camp, and realized he was part of that chorus. The figure that entered the camp was reptilian, tall and powerfully built, but it walked upright like a man. A wedge-shaped head topped its thick neck, and a sinuous tail lashed behind muscular legs that were jointed differently than a man’s and ended in broad, splayed toes. It wore two curved swords crossed on its back, as Amric did. With hardened leather pauldrons and a broad baldric over its chest, it bore less armor overall, but Halthak eyed its scaly green hide and decided that it appeared no less protected.

The Sil’ath stopped just at the edge of the light, inclined a solemn nod to Amric, and then ran its glittering black eyes over the bandits.

“You travel with one of the Sil’ath?” Vorenius said at last, his tone incredulous.

Amric nodded. “This is Valkarr, my sword-brother.”

Sword-brother? The term meant nothing to Halthak, but several of the bandits muttered further exclamations of surprise. The Sil’ath were a reclusive race, said to be without fear, mercy or peer in battle. Halthak, like most, had never seen one of the lizardmen before, but there was no refuting the evidence before him.

“You have a decision before you, friends,” Amric said, as the murmurs died down. “Choose now how your night will end.” Both of the newcomers appeared relaxed, almost unconcerned, but Halthak could not shake the perception of lethal readiness lurking just beneath a calm surface. He noted as well that Amric and Valkarr were spread far apart in the camp, dividing the bandits and leaving themselves plenty of room to operate.

Speechless for once, Vorenius looked repeatedly from Amric to Valkarr and back to his own men. Blood continued to seep through his fingers where he pressed his injured arm to his torso. For their part, his men swallowed hard and held quivering weapons before them in postures that now looked more defensive than otherwise.

The moment stretched out, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the steady hum of insects in the surrounding night. Finally, one of the bandits––the man that Halthak had singled out earlier as a recipient of his healing––sheathed his weapon with deliberate care, raised his hands before him and took a step backward. The man beside him did the same, and in short order the rest followed suit. Vorenius made no move to stop them, his face drawn in pain but otherwise carefully impassive.

Amric nodded and turned toward Halthak, extending a hand. Staring about in wonder, Halthak accepted it and allowed the swordsman to pull him to his feet. Moving past the men, he gathered his pack and staff from the ground before returning to stand next to the warrior. Shouldering his pack, he considered Vorenius. The bandit leader met his gaze with some hesitation, and the healer could see the malice in him, still present but buried deeply under a sense of defeat.

Halthak approached him, and reached one clawed hand out to the injured arm. Vorenius flinched away from his touch, but Halthak ignored this, and gently but firmly drew the arm away from the man’s torso and turned it over to examine the cut. After a moment, he met the bandit leader’s eyes once more, reading the mix of surprise and hopefulness there. They both knew he could heal it, that it would be the work of mere moments to draw the injury onto himself and repair it as rapidly as he had done before.

“You should cleanse that wound before you bandage it,” he said finally. “And have a poultice applied when you get to town, to stave off later infection.” Vorenius’s features contorted with rage for an instant before reverting to an expressionless mask. Halthak released the arm and turned away, returning to Amric’s side.

A smile played across the swordsman’s features. “There may be hope for you yet, healer.”

The Sil’ath warrior Valkarr turned as if to depart, and then paused. He swung back and