He glanced back to find the others in wary crouches, looking around with expressions of bewilderment. They could not see such concealed attacks, and so it would be on his shoulders to protect them.
Mocking laughter drifted to them. “Crude, but effective,” Xenoth called. “You are full of surprises, wilding.”
The white mist billowed and swirled, ebbing back from either side of their path like waves pulling at the shore. A huge tunnel opened in the fog, giving them a clear line of sight all the way to the foot of the stairs which led to the raised platform upon which the Gate rested. Only one thing obstructed their path, a lone figure in black robes with arms spread to part the gathering mists.
“There is no need for this, Adept,” Amric shouted. “No need for further destruction and death. You have no place in this world, and we want no part of yours. Shut down the Gate and leave here forever.”
“You are wrong on all counts, boy,” Xenoth sneered in response. “You may want nothing of my world, but it is still the world that birthed you. For it to live on, it requires all that this one has to give. As for my place, as you put it-” Flame erupted from his hands and curled up his arms. “My place is wherever I choose to set foot.”
Xenoth threw his hands forward and sent gouts of fire hurtling toward Amric.
Borric paced the docks, and with each heavy stride he lowered a booted heel with a sharp report. He bellowed orders to his tired men as he moved, punctuating his imperatives with the occasional cuff or shove to spur greater haste. Hard at work alongside the city guard were a number of men from the private forces of the lords and merchants. Some had seen the necessity of his plan, and had contributed their manpower toward the salvation of all.
He scowled out at the mouth of the harbor, where flecks of lantern light bobbed with the waves, marking the staggered departure of over a dozen ships. Others had looked only to their own needs.
He raked his gaze over the throngs of people crowding the docks and trailing away into the city. More arrived every moment, laden with their belongings. Borric shook his head. Piles of such possessions were mounting near the docks, where the people were forced to discard them before boarding the ships. Only food, people, and the clothes on their backs would be permitted; there was no room for anything else. Even so, the entire operation was moving far too slow for his tastes. At any moment, he expected to see a swarm of fang and claw overtake the back ranks of the crowd, and the screams to begin. Borric swallowed, blinking rapidly to clear the sudden, vivid vision.
A shout rang out nearby, and Borric flinched, half-turning toward the sound. It was just the captain of the cargo ship, however, declaring it full. Borric looked it over and then nodded to the men on the docks. With efficient motions, they cast the lines free and sent the ship lumbering into the bay.
Borric counted the remaining ships for the hundredth time that night, weighing them against the straggling multitudes of people. He pursed his lips. He was no seaman, but by his rough estimations it would be a close thing indeed. Even purged of their trade goods as well as anything else that could be sacrificed for space or weight, many of the vessels were already riding quite low in the water, overburdened with human cargo.
And the stream of people continued, disgorged from the city at a maddening pace.
Borric turned on his heel and thundered down the docks, raising his voice to a bellow again.
Amric ducked behind a crumbled wall as a spray of rock showered down around him. He leaned against the cool, pitted stone, panting for breath. Xenoth’s scornful laughter followed him.
“Your friends have deserted you, wilding. What did you expect of such insects?”
Amric remained silent. The Adept’s initial assault had buffeted him like a thunderstorm, but he had held his ground long enough to cover the retreat of his companions. That short, furious exchange had almost been his undoing, however. Xenoth attacked and changed tactics with such speed that one strike had barely registered before the next was worming past his defenses from another direction. Only a combination of his instinctual wilding magic and the knowledge from Bellimar had kept those killing forces at bay for the seconds he needed to escape.
He looked down. One of his swords still burned bright with flame. The other had become a blackened, useless twist of metal, destroyed in deflecting some strange volley of sticky, clinging fire the Adept had thrown at him. He cast it aside.
“Come now, boy!” Xenoth shouted, a note of impatience souring his tone. “We have already proven that you are no match for me. Let us dispense with the games and finish this. You may have lived like a beast, but you can still die like a man.”
Amric ground his teeth. It was evident that he could not fight a defensive battle here. The Adept was a master at this form of combat, while he was only beginning to understand the fundamentals involved. Well, if the game could not be won, it was time to change the rules.
He drew in power, took a deep breath, and lunged out from behind the wall. The Adept was stalking toward him, and his hard features lit with triumph. Amric thrust out his free hand, fingers splayed, and focused his will. Ribbons of light writhed toward the man, and his foe’s expression turned to one of concentration as he warded off the attack with rapid motions.
“Now where did you learn that, boy?” Xenoth demanded, his brow furrowing. “I do not-”
And Amric hit him with the other attack. With the frontal assault to keep the Adept busy, he had sent a hammer-blow of energy to the side, around and through the ruins, looping back to approach from an unexpected direction. It struck Xenoth with a detonation of such force that Amric felt it like a blow to his chest, and it threw the black-robed man sideways. Xenoth lurched to his feet, livid with fury. He had opened his mouth to voice some new threat when Amric pulled a thick marble column down onto him.
It fell with a resounding crash, and a cloud of dust rose to mingle with the mist as tons of cold rock settled to the turf. The warrior watched, holding his breath. Had he managed to catch the Adept by surprise?
Sudden instinct flared in warning, and he dove to the side. A lance of flame sizzled through the space he had been only moments before, coming from behind just as his own attack had done. With an ear-splitting report, the center of the column exploded, sending jagged shards of marble the size of a man hurtling outward. Xenoth rose from the wreckage with teeth bared in rage and murder in his eyes. He took a step toward Amric, then staggered to the side and put his hand to the rock for support.
Good, Amric thought with grim satisfaction. The man was not invincible after all.
The moment of weakness was fleeting, however. Xenoth straightened and glared his hatred. “For that, boy, I will make your death a slow and painful one.”
The man spread his arms like black wings, his hands formed into claws. In an instant, Amric was fighting for his life. The attacks came from every direction, everything from towering walls of force to needle-sharp talons of fire. They rained down upon him, circled him, drove at him from all sides. They slammed at him, staggered him, bloodied him. He slapped some away with warding gestures, writhed between darts of death with cat-like grace, and sent his sword whistling through ribbons of fire to send them crumbling into ash. His blade, wreathed in flame, wove a glittering net around him, and his movements became a blur. He gave himself over to pure instinct, lost himself in the dance of battle, and gave his wilding magic free reign. The presence within answered his call, roaring to the surface with primal fury, and the two became one as never before. Amric lashed out with both steel and magic, faster than the eye could follow, in total unison of body and mind.