Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist
CHAPTER 1
Halthak watched the sword arc through the night air toward him. He resolved once more to deny his assailants the satisfaction of seeing him struggle further, and braced himself to accept the strike. At the last moment, however, his survival instincts betrayed his will, and his arms rose of their own volition to cross over his head in feeble defense. The blade bit into his flesh, a kiss of fire the length of his forearm, laying it open. Halthak bit back a cry and fell to his side in the dirt, curling around the injured limb.
His attacker rocked back on his heels, roaring with laughter. Several of the other men brayed their own amusement from their positions around the camp. The wildest part of Halthak roared to the surface, gibbering in animal fury for the blood of his assailant, but he quelled his savage lineage with a control born of a lifetime of practice.
Drawing a shuddering breath through clenched teeth, he examined his arm. The bleeding was profuse, but the blade had not quite reached the bone. For a moment he considered not repairing it, considered allowing this wound and the ones that would follow to weaken and kill him. It would put an end to their entertainment, and the thought brought him a grim sense of satisfaction.
Again a spark of defiance within him flared against giving in so easily. He blew out a shaky sigh. In any event, the pain from the gash was severe, and he need not endure such discomfort while he waited for a clean killing blow.
He concentrated for a moment and felt the familiar suffusion of warmth spread through his injured flesh. The wound sealed up before his eyes, his pebbled grey skin pulling closed and becoming whole again. Even the faint white scar would be gone within a few days, he knew, under other circumstances. Halthak pushed to his knees once more, drew the perspiration from his heavy brow with a sleeve, and raised his eyes to his assailant.
Mercenaries, bandits––whatever they might call themselves, they were human predators, drawn to the region by the promise of reward from a wealthy port city in need. Unfortunately, Keldrin’s Landing was very remote, being at the farthest edge of explored territory, and travelers on the way were vulnerable to more than just the strange creatures rumored to besiege the area. Especially lone travelers who were far too trusting by nature, Halthak thought bitterly. Being a half-breed, visibly only half human and an outcast of two societies, did nothing to help matters.
Not all of the bandits took delight in his torture. He saw a few, in fact, shift and exchange uneasy glances. Even if they were uncomfortable with the proceedings, however, they still stood back and allowed it through their inaction. Any distinction between these men and their leader, he decided, was too fine to matter much at the moment.
Vorenius, the bandit leader, dropped to one knee before him, still chuckling. He propped an elbow on his forward knee and leaned in close. A confident leer twisted his coarse features, but Halthak noted the way his trailing hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. This close, Halthak could smell the liquor that hung on his breath and soaked his unkempt beard, but he knew better than to blame its influence for the man’s actions. The mercenary had intended this betrayal from the outset, he was convinced of that much now.
“Proving your bravery by straying within reach of your unarmed captive, Vorenius?” The words were out before his sense of self-preservation could strangle them, but the sarcasm he intended sounded more like pity even to his own ears.
Vorenius’s grin vanished, and he scanned his men for reaction before returning to Halthak, eyes narrowed. “You are in no position to mock me, you filthy––”
“I am in position to do little else,” Halthak interrupted, keeping his voice level.
“I can rid the region of one hideous menace, right here and now,” the bandit snarled, “and without any need of payment.”
Halthak shook his head, casting his gaze about the camp at the rest of the bandits. “Do what you will out here, away from all authority, Vorenius. But do not insult us all by pretending there is anything courageous or noble about your actions.”
The bandit’s jaw clenched and he stood, drawing himself to his full height. He raised his sword, murderous intent writ large upon his features. Halthak met his gaze, ready to let the sword land without deflection and end this charade. Just as the man’s arm tensed to descend, however, a startled oath from one of the other bandits spun Vorenius around. From his position on the ground, Halthak had to peer around the bandit leader to get a look at the source of the disturbance.
A stranger appeared out of the night, seeming to coalesce from the very shadows as he strode forward into the campfire light. Clad in dark leather and an oiled black mail shirt, he moved with the leonine grace of a swordsman. All nine of Vorenius’s men drew their blades and oriented on the newcomer, but the latter made no move to draw his own swords, the hilts of which jutted from his back over each of his armored shoulders. He padded to a halt within a few feet of Vorenius, hooked his thumbs over his belt and stood at apparent ease. Without seeming to notice the bandit leader’s sword leveled at his chest, he addressed everyone.
“Good evening. My name is Amric, and I am traveling to Keldrin’s Landing.”
Vorenius’s sword point never wavered, but his gaze slid from the newcomer to search the darkness beyond the fire’s reach. Halthak realized he must be wondering how Amric had entered the camp without raising a cry from his sentries, and if he was truly alone.
“What do you want here, stranger?” Vorenius asked.
“A few moments of warmth from your fire,” Amric replied, seeming to notice him for the first time. “And I would pay well for a hot meal, if you have anything to spare for a fellow traveler.”
“Take a slice from the spit and be on your way,” Vorenius said. “We are in the midst of something here.”
Amric glanced at Halthak. “So I see.”
“Do not think to intrude, stranger,” the bandit leader growled. “This is a matter between us and this creature.”
“It is doubtless none of my affair,” Amric said, but he did not move, and instead continued to study Halthak.
“Bloody right it’s none of your affair,” Vorenius said. “Now be on your way, before you join our troublesome friend here.”
“Troublesome? Is this creature dangerous, then?”
“Are you blind, or merely a fool? This is an Ork, a savage and mindless beast!”
“Half-Ork,” Halthak corrected, from the ground. And not half the beast that you are, Vorenius, he thought.
The bandit leader swung half toward him with a hiss as if reading his thoughts, and then snapped back around to Amric. He shifted his grip on the sword and made a curt gesture back toward the forest darkness beyond the campfire light. “I say again, stranger,” he grated, “be on your way.”
Halthak grimaced, an icy twist returning to his gut. A brief respite, then, but not salvation.
Amric met the bandit’s eyes for a long moment and then returned his gaze to Halthak. “May I speak with it?” he asked.
An irrational hope flared within Halthak, but he walled it away. This stranger had no reason to intervene on the behalf of one such as him.
Vorenius’s tongue slid across his lips. His eyes darted about, once again taking in each of his men around the camp and scanning for additional intruders. He seemed perplexed as to when he had lost control of the situation. His men murmured and glanced at each other, as uncertain as their leader what to make of the stranger. After a moment’s consideration, Vorenius jerked a shrug and slid back a pace.
Halthak tensed as the stranger stepped forward and sank to his haunches before him, resting lightly on the balls of his booted feet. Grey eyes locked onto his own and pinned him in place. This close, he knew how different he looked from human: the coarse grey flesh, the gnarled hands ending in tapered nails, the close-set eyes beneath a too-heavy brow, the jutting lower jaw encasing the protruding nubs of his tusks. All of these features and more betrayed him for the half-breed monster he was. Had he been a full-blooded Ork, he would have been broader and heavier of build, but as it was he would never be mistaken for human.
Halthak tried to read Amric’s expression, looking for any trace of revulsion, or hatred, or even pity. He found nothing of the sort. Even the stranger’s piercing eyes betrayed no hint of the thoughts behind them.
Amric stared at him, motionless and silent, long enough for the bandit leader to shift in impatience where he stood. Finally he asked, in a low, soft tone, “Why do you not fight back?”
Halthak’s mouth dropped open, and then he snapped it shut. He was not certain what conversation he had expected, but it was not this. The warrior’s voice was gentle, almost friendly. Recovering from his surprise, he said, “I will not give them the satisfaction. The more I struggle, the more it fuels their sport.”
“You look healthy and able,” Amric said. “Your limbs are strong, perhaps stronger than a human’s. Your claws and teeth appear formidable, though you strive to conceal them.” Halthak winced as the swordsman continued. “And yet your captors bear no injuries. Did you not struggle when they took you?”
“What bloody purpose—” Vorenius protested, taking half a step forward, but he drew up short as Amric raised a hand for silence. The swordsman’s gaze never left Halthak’s face, and he appeared unconcerned about the weapons arrayed around the camp against him.
“I am a healer,” Halthak said, lifting his chin. “I heal injuries, I do not cause them. No matter what manner of monster you may see before you, I have dedicated my life to healing. I will not take the life of another.”
“Even to save your own?” Amric asked.
“Even then.”
Amric tilted his head to one side, but his expression still betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
“I met Vorenius and his men on the road to the port city this morning,” Halthak continued, the words now tumbling out in a rush. “Some of them were injured, and I offered them my services in exchange for protection on the journey, since we shared a common destination. They— ”
His words slurred, and he ground to a halt in frustration. His mouth was poorly formed for the more delicate human language, and finer pronunciation suffered when he grew agitated. He drew a steadying breath and continued. “They were friendly enough at first. But as night fell and they confirmed I traveled alone, it became evident that I was, to them, just another monster to be slain. Or perhaps just a vulnerable traveler, foolish enough to believe our arrangement would be honored. My healing abilities, rather than earning their gratitude, became additional spice for their entertainment.”
Even as he spoke, he was uncertain if he was stalling for time, merely wishing to delay the inevitable, or if he wanted this stranger––someone, anyone––to understand at least this much of him before his death. A fearful part of him recognized that he had involved the man too deeply in his plight already, and that his selfishness might cause the death of another here at the last, but it was too late and so he surged ahead. His eyes raked the circle of men around the campfire and he stabbed a clawed finger at one of the bandits.
“That one would have lost his arm to infection at the very least, had it not been for my efforts. And he repays my kindness by cheering my torture and death.” The target of his attention started and involuntarily flexed his now healthy hand, glancing about at his comrades. The men began to mutter amongst themselves, their growing discomfort plain, their blades wavering.
Vorenius snarled an oath, seeming to realize that the situation would soon be beyond repair. He lunged forward at the crouching stranger, sword flashing down. Amric spun to his feet and drew one of the swords from his back in a blur of motion. There was a flicker of steel and Vorenius cried out in pain, his own blade tumbling from his hand. Staggering back, he clutched his arm to his torso as a spreading sheet of blood soaked the front of his tunic. Halthak noted with a start that the cut to Vorenius’s arm was nearly identical in placement and severity to the one the bandit leader had inflicted on Halthak mere minutes before. He returned his stare to the newcomer.
Amric stood motionless, sword held down and away, and he met the gaze of each of the stunned bandits in turn. When none of them advanced, he gave a sharp flick to the side to clear the blood from his blade, and sheathed it over his shoulder in a practiced motion. He hooked his thumbs over his belt once more, and his voice rang with command as he addressed them all over Vorenius’s agonized groans.
“I have seen and heard enough,” he said. “You have the opportunity now to make amends for a poor decision, and to let the healer leave this camp with me, without any further harm.”
The men exchanged glances. Vorenius cast about, eyes wild, and saw no one leaping to his defense. Lurching away 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 stalked through the camp with purpose, startling the bandits into falling back another step. Rather than attacking, however, he reached down with one clawed hand and wrenched the spit from its cooling stand, complete with the generous portion of roasted boar haunch that remained on it. He bit into it with savage abandon, tearing loose a large mouthful, the muscles around his powerful jaws and neck bunching as he chewed noisily. He seemed to have forgotten the men in the camp, and no one moved to stop him. Finally he uttered a satisfied hiss and took another prodigious bite as he walked out of the camp with his prize and disappeared into the darkness.
Amric turned with a chuckle and strode from the camp without a backward glance, and Halthak followed close on his heels. The healer’s last glimpse of the camp showed the men all turning to face Vorenius. From their stances and the wide-eyed look on Vorenius’s face, he surmised that the balance of power within the band of mercenaries would be the subject of intense discussion that night.
As he tracked the pale glints of moonlight on the sword pommels over Amric’s shoulders, Halthak was forced to consider his own immediate future. He was following two strange and fearsome warriors into the unknown, one of them of a race renowned for its ferocity, love of battle, and intolerance of others. By all rights he should have been terrified, but instead he felt strangely at ease. The Sil’ath was in the company of a human who called him a brother of some sort, and in any event, Halthak knew from his own experience that assumptions based on race were not always accurate. He admitted to himself that he might simply be leaping at any change in his situation, but there was something in the swordsman’s unexpected treatment of him that instilled a newfound confidence. Whether or not that confidence was warranted remained to be seen. Regardless, his die was cast, and he was not exactly spoiled for options at the moment.
Halthak focused on his footing and keeping Amric in sight before him. They moved on and were swallowed by the night.
Halthak lay on his bedroll, staring up at the star-speckled sky. The campfire had died down to embers, but the sliver of moon gave enough light by which to see, once one’s eyes were adjusted. Several yards away, Amric sat cross-legged on the ground, cleaning with meticulous care the sword he had used in the mercenary camp. He faced outward into the night and lifted his gaze often from his task to scan the darkness. Valkarr was stretched out on the opposite side of the fire pit from the healer, his even breathing almost a purr as he slept.
The two warriors had made camp in the lee of a rock outcropping, with no wasted motion and nary a word spoken, while Halthak stood aside and felt useless. The three shared the roasted boar haunch from the bandits’ camp, and then with no apparent communication between them, Amric stood the first watch while Valkarr dropped to the ground without ceremony and fell asleep. Halthak took to his own bedroll, but his mind continued to race over the events of the night, and sleep eluded him. His fingers drummed, feather light, on the haft of his gnarled ironwood staff as he contemplated breaking the silence.
In the end, Amric beat him to it.
“Speak your mind, healer,” he said, his tone wry.
Halthak jumped, shifting his gaze to the warrior. He cleared his throat, and began in a low tone, “I want to thank you for saving me from those men earlier. Not many would have intervened on behalf of a stranger, especially one with my appearance, and outnumbered as you were.”
“Think no more on it,” Amric said, waving a dismissive hand. “It was not a scene we could pass without becoming involved. And appearance is like so much clothing; it can accentuate or conceal the truth beneath it, but is not itself the truth.”
Halthak noted the plural ‘we’, and wondered at the Sil’ath warrior’s involvement in the decision. “Nonetheless, it was a courageous deed,” he insisted. “I owe you my thanks, and my life.”
Amric paused in cleaning the sword and looked over his shoulder. “You owe me nothing, friend. It was your words as much as our blades that made those men reconsider their actions, in the end. They knew the wrong of their deeds. But I accept your gratitude, as offered.” Turning back, he resumed running a cloth the length of his blade.
Halthak turned his gaze back to the night sky. Try as he might, he could not puzzle the man out. His actions and speech were unlike any soldier he had met. Bolstering his courage, he cast a furtive glance toward the sleeping Sil’ath and spoke again, more softly.
“Is it true, what they say about the Sil’ath?” he asked.
“No,” Amric replied at once, without turning his head.
“How can you know which part I mean?”
“I don’t need to. I have lived among the Sil’ath for many years, and I have also traveled broadly enough to know that whenever ‘they’ talk about the Sil’ath, they invariably get it wrong.”
“You live––have lived among them?” Halthak blurted, rising to prop himself on one elbow.
Amric snorted. “What tales have you heard, healer? That they eat their own offspring? That they attack other races without provocation? That they are incapable of reason or honor?”
Halthak reddened, hoping his discomfort was not visible in the poor light. Amric’s derisive comments did indeed align with some of what he had heard, and he was beginning to worry that his curiosity and ignorance might have angered his savior. From the dismissive tone of Amric’s next statements, however, he had little cause for concern.
“Nothing more than hot air that could just as easily have emanated from either end of the speaker, for all the wisdom it contained.” The warrior held up his sword to sight down its edge, looking for nicks. Satisfied, he sheathed the blade and set the crossed scabbards aside but within easy reach. They sat in silence for several moments, and Halthak thought the conversation was at an end until Amric finally spoke again.
“There are no doubt elements of truth in what you have heard of the Sil’ath, healer. They are indeed fearless and implacable in battle, and their warriors are trained from birth with any weapon they can lift. Contrary to the tales, however, they are not motivated to conquer or pillage, and they are never unnecessarily cruel. Any such behavioral flaws are dealt with swiftly in Sil’ath society. They are a pragmatic people in all things, and so when they are provoked to conflict they aim to put a decisive end to it. They bend the knee to no one.”
“That does not sound very pragmatic. What if they face an overwhelming force?”
Amric chuckled. “That depends on your point of view. When I call them pragmatic, I do not mean to say they will take the easiest path. Far from it. They are uncompromising in their principles, and every last one of their warriors is worth several of their enemy on the field of battle. Make no mistake, each will fight until he can no longer draw breath. As a result, no one enters lightly into conflict with the Sil’ath. Think of it as promoting peace by advertising the high cost of the alternative. In the end, all they want is to live and raise their own without interference or encroachment from other races, which they find generally baffling and unpredictable by comparison.”
Halthak considered his words for several moments. “And despite their dislike of other races, they accepted your presence among them?”
“To be fair, they gave me a home among them when I was quite young, so I had few behaviors to unlearn as they raised me.”
Amric glanced over his shoulder at Halthak when he heard no reply, and laughed.
“Close your mouth, healer, it is not so terrible a fate. The Sil’ath raise their own with the principles of honor, integrity, capability and dedication. Not just the words, but ingrained in their core. They treat each other with the deepest affection and loyalty. No, I have spent time among humans as well, later in life, and I am fortunate for the upbringing I had.”
Halthak started to object, and then paused. He considered his own past treatment at the hands of both men and Orks, and his arguments faded before him like so much smoke. Who was he to defend the merits of being with one’s own kind, when he himself had never found such acceptance? He stole another look at the sleeping Valkarr, and then turned back to Amric.
“How did you come to dwell among them?” he asked.
But Amric shook his head. “This is a barter system, my friend, and it is time to balance the scales.”
Halthak swallowed his disappointment. “Very well, what would you know of me?”
“Your healing, is it magic?”
“I am no expert on magic, but I believe so, as I have never seen anyone else with the same ability.”
“How did you acquire it?”
“I’ve had it as long as I can remember, so I expect I was born this way.”
Amric glanced back at him again, and Halthak was taken aback by the man’s sudden hard expression. “Do you have any other magical abilities? Or any magic artifacts in your possession?”
“None,” Halthak replied softly. “But if I had anything of worth, I would offer it to you in exchange for saving my life earlier tonight.”
“You misunderstand,” Amric said. “The Sil’ath have a deep distrust of all thing tainted by magic, and I suppose I have inherited much of that aversion. Among humans, I have seen magic lead to little other than corruption and lust for more power. I think it cannot be safely controlled by the likes of mortal men, and I want as little dealing with such dark and unpredictable forces as possible.”
Halthak was silent a moment, staring at the swordsman’s back. “You think of my ability as a disease, a taint on my soul? Well, it’s no worse than I have thought myself, many times. While I made no dark pact to gain this ability, it has still been more a curse to me than a gift. As long as I must live with it, however, I will at least put it to good use by helping others in need.”
“And if your ministrations are in fact spreading this taint to your patients?”
Halthak was again taken aback. “I–I had never considered it. I draw the injuries into myself and heal them there, but there is much I do not know about….” He trailed off, and then spoke again with resolve. “But it is a part of me, and I have to believe my intent counts for something.”
Amric sighed, and the tension eased from his posture. “Please forgive me, healer, for I meant no insult. You are a kind soul, and I agree with you that intent should matter. Regardless, you deserve finer treatment from the likes of me. I will see you safely to the city, and I will not again let my prejudice get the better of my manners.”
“Think no more on it,” Halthak said, echoing back Amric’s own words. “Keldrin’s Landing is said to have drawn all manner of experts and artisans to itself in its hour of need. No doubt scholars of magic will be among them. Perhaps I can learn more of my ability there.”
“Such knowledge could be useful indeed,” Amric agreed, “if you can trust its source. Be wary not to fall under the sway of a scholar with his own motives.”
“What do you mean?”
“Magic, wealth and martial might are forms of power, and they have all been congregating at Keldrin’s Landing. The city’s cry for help has likely drawn as many jackals as defenders. The greatest threat may still be from the surrounding lands, but the dangers within the city walls are no less real. Be guarded in lending your trust to anyone there.”
“You talk as if you’ve been there,” Halthak said.
“No, but like any soldier who hopes to live long enough to see his own hair become grey one day, I have gathered information as to the terrain ahead. Word has spread far from the ailing city, as you are no doubt aware, and its afflictions follow the tales. Its plight is expanding quickly to the rest of the land.”
“It sounds as if my safest course would be to remain in your company, for a time,” Halthak ventured.
Amric gave him a sharp look. “That is not our agreement, healer. I will see you to the city, and then we part company.”
Halthak looked away. He had expected no different, but still he was stung by the abrupt rebuke. The swordsman stood, stretched his arms over his head, walked a few paces back and forth, and then resumed his seated position.
“I do not know your purpose in Keldrin’s Landing,” Amric said in a more gentle tone, and he held up one hand to forestall Halthak’s response, “and I do not want to know. Valkarr and I have our own purpose there, and I cannot say where the trail will lead, but we will need to move quickly and it will be hazardous. You do not want to accompany us.”
“If your path will be as hazardous as you say, you may be injured––”
Amric shook his head. “Enough, healer. Some secrets must remain between us yet. Now get some rest. If we break camp early on the morrow, I believe we can reach Keldrin’s Landing by midday. In any event, we have made too much noise already and there are things out there that will take an interest in us if we continue to beg their attention.”
Halthak felt a chill at Amric’s words, and he rolled to his side to put his back to the rock outcropping while his gaze raked the surrounding darkness. He had heard many tales of the horrors assailing the lands surrounding Keldrin’s Landing. Those tales were scarcely credible, but even if they had grown in the retelling, they were likely based on some small kernel of truth. And any basis in fact to what Halthak had heard was sobering indeed. He wondered, not for the first time, at his own judgment in coming here. He was certain sleep would not come, certain he would lie awake all night waiting for some grinning nightmare to claw its way out of the night and come for him. In the darkest hours of the new morning, however, exhaustion worked at his conviction with its measured touch and proved him wrong.