If the door could not be closed, then, that left only the other option: he could open the door wide by fully activating the Gate. This world would be drained of its magic in rapid, catastrophic fashion, and all life here would perish. Rather than a reduction of its intake, Aetheria would receive a veritable flood of new energy to meet its needs for a time. The Nar’ath scourge waiting to cross over would be dead, and the troublesome wilding as well. A hard smile spread across Xenoth’s features. It was a way to protect Aetheria and fulfill his mission at the same time. In any event, the Gate’s current activity level was an indication that this world was scheduled for harvest soon. He would merely be accelerating the schedule somewhat. He could only hope the Council would see it that way as well.
The Essence Gate seemed to beckon to him from its platform. The device was an ancient and formidable magic, but it would take some time to reach full operation. It would take longer still for it to drain the essence from this world. The sooner he started, the sooner Aetheria would be safe.
Xenoth squared his shoulders and strode into the mist.
“Did you kill him?”
Amric tore his gaze from where the glowing rift in the air had vanished, and shifted it over to the huntress. The wilding magic was flitting about inside him in a state of wordless elation, and the sensation, akin to a persistent buzzing in his ears, was very distracting. “What did you say?”
“Did you kill him?” she repeated. “The Adept, with that last attack of yours.”
Something inside the warrior flinched at the wary mask she wore as she regarded him. He shook his head. “No, I do not think so,” he said. “It was a weak strike, but it caught him off-balance and gave him a good push while his attention was elsewhere.” He gave her a steady look. “You have my gratitude for your intervention, Thalya. I owe you my life.”
Her cheeks colored and she lifted her chin in a clipped nod.
“Foolish girl,” hissed a voice that brought them both sharply around. Bellimar had withdrawn to the light’s edge, and was once again wreathed in deepest shadow. His eyes burned blood-red from the darkness. “You had your opening, girl. You should have taken the shot. I may not have the strength to offer you another.”
Thalya’s features hardened. “I made the choice to save Amric’s life over ending yours, Bellimar,” she snarled. “I hope I chose the greater monster for that last arrow. Do not prove me wrong!”
The huntress spun on her heel and stalked away, muttering about the need to find Halthak so they could depart this place. Syth was weaving a drunken path toward them, and she brushed past him without a word. He craned his neck to watch her stomp into the darkness.
“What is she so angry about?” he demanded in a too-loud voice, knuckling his ear and shaking his head to clear it.
“She questions herself over the shot not taken,” Bellimar responded. Then he gave a dry, sibilant chuckle. “And she wishes for one more such arrow.”
Syth eyed the old man, exchanged a meaningful glance with Amric, and then turned to follow Thalya. “I will help her look for the healer,” he called over his shoulder. “He cannot have been thrown far.”
Amric faced the vampire, and they regarded each other without speaking. At last, Bellimar broke the silence with a whisper. “You already know what must be done, swordsman. Freed of the binding that suppressed my demonic nature, I will once again be more monster than man, soon enough. You will be forced to end me, if you can, or I will slay you all.”
The warrior shivered at the quiet conviction behind the old man’s words. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bellimar was already shaking his head. “There is no salvation for me this time, Amric. Last time, it took a group of Adepts, each far more powerful than the one we just fought, to change my very nature in this way. Even if the Adepts of today are still capable of such acts, we simply do not have the time before I once again become a scourge of death upon this world-starting with all of you.”
“How long can you hold out?”
“Not long, I am afraid. My hunger has been long denied, but its victory is now inevitable. My control erodes with each passing moment, and I find it harder and harder to remember why I should fight against it.”
Amric folded his arms across his chest, fixing storm-grey eyes upon Bellimar. When he spoke, his voice was level and edged with the steel of command. “You staved it off for centuries, holding together a failing enchantment through sheer force of will. You have risked yourself for all of us more than once. Even Thalya, looking upon you just now, found something worth saving.” The pinpoints of scarlet blinked and shifted in the direction the huntress had gone, before settling back upon the warrior.
“We must tend to our fallen,” Amric continued. “We must be gone from here before either the Adept or the Nar’ath minions return. We can regroup with the survivors from the hive at the crag where we camped last night, and make our plan there. Xenoth must be stopped. I need you to hold out that long.”
Bellimar snorted. “You cannot stop him. You were fortunate to survive this encounter.”
“Still, I mean to try, and I will need your counsel if I am to stand any chance at all.”
There was a pause, and then Bellimar whispered, “And what then, swordsman?”
“There has to be a way,” Amric said quietly.
The vampire gave a slow shake of his head. “You ask the impossible, many times over.”
“Still,” the warrior repeated, “I mean to try.”
Bellimar drew back into the shadows until even the crimson glimmer of his eyes all but disappeared.
“I need you to hold out that long, Bellimar. What say you?” Amric’s mouth quirked upward at the corner as he echoed the old man’s own words from when they met in the inn at Keldrin’s Landing, what seemed an eternity ago.
“I will strive to do as you ask,” Bellimar replied at last. “But when the time comes, promise me you will act without hesitation. Promise you will do what must be done, if you can.”
Amric inclined his head in a grave nod. “I will.”
He turned his attention to helping with the fallen. Valkarr had already assisted Sariel to her feet, and though she was groggy from the concussive blast that had knocked her unconscious, she bore no serious injuries. The two of them greeted him as he approached. On the surface they sounded no different than the friends he had known since childhood, but there was an unfamiliar hint of reserve to the bearing of each that sent slivers of ice deep into his chest.
A brief search for the horses proved fruitless. The animals had either fled too far to hear their calls, or had fallen prey to the denizens of the wastes. Syth and Thalya had better luck locating Halthak, at least. The healer had been hurled away in the chaos and partially buried under a mound of sand. He staggered back with the support of the others, and his own bruises and abrasions were scarcely healed before he began fretting over everyone else.
The remains of Innikar were so blackened and distorted as to be unrecognizable, little more than warped blades and bits of metal in a pile of ash and cinder. The swords were in no condition to return to his family back home, so they buried them with him, there in the wasteland. It was a futile gesture, given the ephemeral landscape of rolling sands all about them, but one they performed by unspoken agreement. They had no suitable means by which to carry the remains anywhere else, and Sil’ath tradition held that their heroes should lie where they fell in battle, so that they could continue the fight from the spirit world. Amric pictured the irrepressible Innikar shrugging off an inconvenience like death as if it were some ill-fitting cloak, drawing his swords once more with the joy of battle alight upon his lean features. He smiled to himself. The Sil’ath were ever a stubborn, pragmatic people, and their beliefs were a firm reflection of that. The smile faded. The Sil’ath. His people.