With a scream of outrage, Xenoth ran for the platform, unleashing strike after strike as he went. Lashes of fire tore great gouges out of the stone, and Syth and Halthak darted back and forth upon the stairs in a frantic effort to avoid them. A blazing whip sheared through a section of the stairway beneath Syth, and it began to fall away. He sprang from the falling segment in a prodigious leap, and sudden wind caught him at the apex, propelling him toward the stairs. Before he could land, however, a snaking blow hammered into him and sent him spinning over the side, into the darkness.
Amric reappeared in a mad sprint. He had doubled back when he realized that the lure had failed, and he struck out with a sledge of force that threw Xenoth from his feet. The black-robed Adept rolled into a crouch, facing the warrior with a snarl. He swept out with an arm, and a huge boulder ripped free of the turf and catapulted toward Amric. The latter dove to one side, raising a hasty shield to deflect the giant missile, but it collided with such force that he was sent flying back and to the side. He slammed into a marble boulder, and his world exploded in pain and flashes of light as he fought to retain consciousness.
Valkarr and Sariel appeared as if from nowhere, twin specters darting at the Adept from either side with flashing steel. Rather than try to stop them individually, however, Xenoth brought both fists together and slammed them to the ground, sending a circular wave rushing outward that threw them back into the mist. The Adept stood and extended one hand toward Halthak, still clambering up the stairs. The step beneath the Half-Ork’s foot exploded in a spray of rock and he fell, tumbling end over end on the punishing stone until he came to a crashing halt at the bottom.
Halthak spat out blood and pushed to all fours as Xenoth strode toward him. The cuts and bruises on his craggy face faded and vanished, and his breathing grew steadier.
“Ah yes,” the Adept sneered. “One of the insects. The scrub talent, the lay healer. I warned you once not to cross me, that I would make your end far more agonizing than you could imagine. Insect, you will find now that I am a man of my word.”
Xenoth put his hands together before him, and his brow furrowed in concentration. A ball of sickly green and black energy gathered there. It blazed and grew like a tiny sun of malevolent purpose. Xenoth growled with the effort, and his hands began to shake.
Amric rose to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. He found his sword a dozen feet away, its flame extinguished. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, as his wilding magic railed within him.
Halthak bared his tusks in defiance, and gathered to spring at the Adept. Xenoth lashed out, and the sphere of dark energy struck the healer full in the chest. Halthak was blown back onto the stairs with crushing impact. He slumped there for a moment, dazed, limbs splayed out on the marble steps. Then he lifted his head to stare at his torso in shock. The robes covering his midsection had been blasted away to form a gaping hole, and the edges of the cloth were blackened and smoking. Underneath, a circle of the same foul green and black energy was boiling and churning as it gnawed away at the Half-Ork’s torso. It grew, widening and deepening, chewing an ever larger hole in his bare, grey flesh. Halthak slid to his knees at the base of the steps and screamed, a wrenching sound of exquisite suffering, and his head fell forward in concentration. The growth of the cavity slowed, and it began to shrink as the flesh knitted around it. The green blazed even brighter in response, however, and the energies within swirled faster. The void began to expand again, more swiftly than before.
Xenoth gave a harsh, pitiless laugh. “It feeds on magic. The more you draw upon, the more you pour into healing yourself, the faster it will grow and consume you. And the more pain you will feel. A fitting punishment, I think, for a meddling insect like yourself.”
Halthak screamed again and fell to his side in the grass, curling around his injury. The Adept stepped back with a cold smile.
“I warned you fools,” he said. “I deal out retribution and death at the behest of the Council. It is all I do, and there is nothing on this pathetic world that can stop me.”
“Xenoth!” The shout brought the Adept around in a swirl of black robes. Amric stalked toward him, down the center of the tunnel carved from the mist. There was a slight limp to his gait, but his stride was purposeful. His sword jutted from one fist, and his storm-grey eyes were hard as steel. His gaze flicked to the struggling form of Halthak for an instant, and then returned to fix upon his foe. White flame, bright as the sun, burst out around the blade and kindled within his eyes.
“Bold words,” he growled. “Come prove them.”
Morland stood alone at a towering window in the great hall of his mansion, his hands clasped behind his back. His dark eyes were unfocused and saw nothing of the majestic scene wrought in colored glass before him, or the lush, exotic gardens beyond.
Distant, muffled shouts and a soft thump against the great double doors at the end of the hall broke into his reverie, and he turned toward that end of the room with an expectant scowl. The doors remained closed, however, and the sounds were not repeated. He muttered an oath under his breath and turned back to the window.
What was taking those incompetent fools so long, anyway? He had been very clear about the need for haste, but such reinforcement of the obvious should not have been necessary, in any event. His watchmen had brought back word that the townsfolk had returned, having somehow eluded the grasp of the Nar’ath, and that the city was being overrun by some new, overwhelming force. That news had spread like wildfire through his men, and there had been no hesitation to comply when he ordered them to prepare for flight.
The escape plan was simple, and one he had prepared well in advance in case this tumultuous night came to the worst. His stewards and private guards were to collect the most necessary of his belongings, and then escort him to the docks. There, he would signal in the clipper that was anchored out in the bay, a very swift personal vessel that would carry him away from this wretched place. It was time to pursue his fortune elsewhere.
The clipper was large, but it would not carry all those still in his employ. No matter. Many swords would need to remain on the docks anyway to keep the rabble from viewing his ship as their own salvation. He permitted himself a small, cold smile. He would simply tell those left behind that they would be well compensated for their bravery, and that he would send in the next ship once his was safely away. They were coarse men with credulous minds, after all.
Morland flinched as one of the torches sputtered and died in its sconce at the far end of the room. That corner of the hall fell into deeper shadow, and Morland stared for a long moment. Nothing moved there, and the tension eased from him. A sudden shiver caught him by surprise. When had it become cold in the room? He eyed the cavernous hearth, devoid of its usual fire at the moment, and then shrugged it off. He would be leaving soon; there was no time to bother with such worries.
He forced his attention to other matters, and wondered if Nyar and Nylien had completed their mission. It was a pity they had not returned yet. He had become somewhat accustomed to the twin Alfen assassins lurking about, and they had a way of turning up at just the right time, but it seemed unlikely this time. They were utterly mad, the both of them, but they had proven to be very useful tools, peerless at dispensing death at his command. They would be difficult to replace.