The merchant crossed the room, his silk slippers whispering on the vast, intricately woven rug. He stood before a window opposite the first, one that looked out onto a portion of his estate grounds rather than onto his gardens. He squinted into the darkness, and then sighed. He found himself wishing he had been less efficient about disposing of the farseer once the Nar’ath had retreated. The young fool’s talents would have proven useful in monitoring the progress of the creatures now invading the city, and in choosing his escape route. But alas, the lad had known or guessed too much regarding Morland’s arrangement with the Nar’ath, and he could not risk such rumors following him to more civilized regions. Plan for every eventuality, leave nothing to chance.
Another torch died with a hissing pop, and Morland whirled about. Three more followed in rapid succession, and he took an involuntary step back. The far end of the room descended into darkness so absolute that he could no longer discern the gleaming brass that bound the doors.
“Is someone there?” he asked.
Laughter, soft and rich, drifted out of the darkness. Morland jumped at the sound and then remembered himself. He was the lord of this manor, and there would be hell to pay if one of his men was interrupting him with anything other than news of readiness for their departure. He drew up to his full height with fists clenched and demanded, “Who is there?”
The blackness drew together like an eddying pool and formed into the shape of a man. With one long step, the man broke into the light, but wisps of shadow seemed to cling to him still, as if the darkness was reluctant to be left behind. He was a tall man, sharp-featured and broad of shoulder. He was clad in dark greyish robes, with hair as black as polished jet. He regarded the merchant with a faint smile upon his lips.
Morland opened his mouth, hesitated, shut it again. The stranger radiated cool assurance, and there was an august quality to his bearing that left the merchant with an involuntary desire to bend his knee before him. This was a man in the prime of his power, accustomed to rule. And, Morland thought with a frown, he looked somehow familiar.
The stranger began a slow stroll around the enormous room, considering the lavish furnishings in silence. He paused before a huge tapestry that brushed the floor at his feet and soared to the ceiling high above. He looked it up and down, tilting his head to one side, and then resumed walking. Morland took a few shuffling steps, studying the man’s profile.
Morland’s eyes narrowed. “I know you,” he said.
The stranger gave a soft laugh that sent a chill crawling along the merchant’s spine. “You may remember me. You may recall meeting me in this very room, mere days ago.” The force of the man’s gaze turned upon him, pinning him in place for an instant, and then slid away once more. “But you do not know me, merchant.”
“You bear a strong resemblance to that Bellimar fellow, who came here with the swordsman,” Morland said. “Are you some relation of his?”
“I am that man,” the other responded. “I am Bellimar.”
“Impossible,” Morland said with a derisive snort. “That one was bent with age, with hair of silver. You are decades younger.”
“Only in appearance,” the stranger said. He smiled, and there was nothing of warmth in the expression. “I have fed very well, this night.”
The merchant blinked and shook his head. “Believe what you will, I have no time for such games. The city has fallen, and any who wish to live must flee Keldrin’s Landing immediately.”
“I know,” said the man who called himself Bellimar. He began to walk again.
Morland’s brow furrowed as he watched the stranger’s gliding, unhurried progress around the room. His tone hardened as he stated, “My personal guard will be coming through those doors at any moment to escort me to safety.”
“No,” Bellimar said. “I am afraid they will not.”
“And why not?” the merchant demanded.
The other chuckled. “Someone gave them the notion that you would be remaining here, instead. That you were, in fact, already dead.”
Morland’s breath caught in his throat. “My men would never believe such a ludicrous falsehood.”
“I prefer to call it more of a temporal inaccuracy,” Bellimar said with a dismissive shrug. “Regardless, some elected to leave, while others chose instead to remain and voice their skepticism.” He turned to the merchant with a smile, and the torchlight danced in his eyes, causing them to give off an eerie, lambent glow. “As I mentioned, I fed well tonight.”
“What do you want here?” Morland demanded, suppressing a shudder.
“I came to fulfill a promise, Morland. I came for you.”
It took a few tries before the merchant could make any sound pass his lips. “I do not understand,” he finally managed.
“Someone I cared deeply about perished by your hand tonight, merchant,” Bellimar said, and his tone had become as cold and hard as ice. “Which reminds me, I found some instruments you appear to have lost.”
The man’s dark robes fluttered and a pair of heavy, oblong objects tumbled across the ornate rug toward Morland. They took irregular bounces, and one veered to the side in a semi-circular path, rocking to a halt. The other rolled to a stop against his slippered foot, facing upward. Glassy eyes stared up at him, unseeing, and the mouths gaped in frozen, unending screams. The severed heads ended at the neck in ragged flesh, torn from their bodies by main force. The skin was sunken and bloodless, but there was no mistaking the slanted features or the white shocks of hair that had belonged to the Elvaren assassins, Nyar and Nylien. Morland stared in horror.
“They fancied themselves creatures of the night,” Bellimar mused with a dark chuckle. “My night. Imagine their surprise to encounter the Lord of the Night himself.” He tilted his head, studying the grisly objects. “Actually, you do not have to imagine. You can still see that surprise in their expressions.”
Morland wrenched his gaze away from the horrific sight at his feet and found something even worse awaiting him. Bellimar had not moved, but the shadows gathered to him in crawling, serpentine movements. The light in the great hall dimmed to a ruddy twilight as the remaining torches burned low, coughing and sputtering and fighting for life. The stranger’s smile widened to reveal rows of long, gleaming fangs. His eyes burned scarlet and feral.
An inhuman voice hissed from that roiling mass of shadow. “We will not be disturbed, merchant. There is enough time left to us to ensure that you feel a measure of the suffering you have caused. And I will make certain that you cause no more.”
Morland’s mouth worked in terror, but only a strangled gasp emerged. His breath frosted in a wisp before him.
“Come now, Morland,” Bellimar said, his words raw and guttural and pulsating with hunger. “You are a man of business. You of all people should know that, sooner or later, one’s debts must always be paid.”
The shadows rolled forward at a slow, inexorable pace, closing around him.
Morland found his voice at last, but there was no one in the mansion to hear the screams.
The ruins of Queln blazed with light and thunder as Amric and Xenoth fought. There was no longer any semblance of guile or strategy to their actions, and no more words were exchanged. None were necessary. Each man stood his ground, hurling his rage and determination at the other in the form of primal energies, seeking to hammer his foe into oblivion. The Essence Gate towered above them on its high platform of stone, a continual, roaring presence that made the very air shimmer with the power being drawn into it. It looked down upon the battle below with an uncaring eye.
Amric gave himself over to the fury of battle, fighting on purest instinct, and his wilding magic was a fierce ally in tune with every fiber of his being. He became a melding of man and beast, of steel and magic, and he could not have begun to say where one left off and the other began. His sword flickered, slicing and deflecting too fast for the eye to follow, and he sent attack after attack lancing toward his foe.