The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept (2 page)

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 s
aid, 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.”