The queen’s ridged skull swung back toward him. “That is no Adept. You bring the fleshlings of this world against me? What game are you playing at?” The last was almost a murmur, more to herself than to him. Good, he had her confused, and she was suspending action against him once more, at least for the moment.
His circuit of the room had finally brought him to the cluster of captives. His heart sank when he saw that all seven of them were human, not a Sil’ath form among them. Valkarr rose and stole to his side with a shake of his head. He stood so close that the words that followed were more breath against Amric’s ear than actual sound.
“The men say they are the last to survive,” he whispered. “They have seen no other Sil’ath, and no prisoners have been removed from this chamber.”
“Can they all walk?” Amric whispered back, barely moving his lips as he spoke from the side of his mouth.
“Some were injured in the taking,” Valkarr said. His dark eyes glittered with barely restrained fury. “But they do not lack for motivation. They are ready.”
“Good. I will continue around. Take them swiftly up the stairs when the moment allows.”
The Sil’ath warrior inclined his head in the barest of nods and stepped away to hold a hushed conversation with Sariel. Amric resumed walking, looking over the captives as he went. They had the look of soldiers, hard and rough-hewn, but they were also pale, haggard, haunted. Their sunken eyes met his as he passed, and he saw reflected there the specters of what the men had been through since their capture. I can promise you only the chance to live or die on your feet, as men, fighting for your lives, he thought. Nothing more, but let it be enough.
“Adept.”
It was Bellimar’s voice, the timbre of it hollow and strained. The vampire was staring at him from the edge of the pool he had been studying, the soft green glow writhing along the underside of his features. Amric moved toward him, holding himself to an unhurried stride. The Nar’ath queen, hissing to herself, twisted within her enclosure to follow his progress around the room.
Bellimar thrust out a hand as he approached. “Your knife.”
Amric eyed him, but drew his knife from his belt and passed it over without comment. The old man knelt by the side of the pool, watching the dark forms churning within its viscous, luminescent depths.
“Do not touch the waters,” he warned. “They are anathema to living flesh.”
His hand darted out with lightning speed, fastening to one of the cocooned forms and dragging it toward him.
“Tell me,” Bellimar said, “does not the shape of this one strike you as familiar?”
Amric felt a tightening sensation in his chest as he gazed upon the wrapped figure. At first it looked no different to him than the others, just another long, amorphous shape twisting and heaving with corrupted vigor. Then he saw it. Against the folds of soaked cloth-like material, he could pick out broad shoulders and powerful arms pushing at the silken bonds, a narrow waist flaring to flexing legs that were not quite jointed correctly for a man, and behind that a thrashing appendage that suggested nothing so much as a Sil’ath tail. There was understanding and pity in Bellimar’s eyes as he held the knife poised, looking a question at him.
“Do it,” Amric said between gritted teeth.
With a flick of his wrist, Bellimar swept the knife through the coils around the head. A glistening black wedge-shaped visage thrust its way clear, ebon eyes rolling against the sudden bite of the air. Amric’s breath caught in his throat, lodged there, and became stone. Prakseth. Burly Prakseth, jovial and honorable to the last fiber of his being. First to defend, first to comfort. Oh my friend, what have these monsters done to you?
Those malignant orbs darted from Bellimar to Amric. There was recognition there, of a sort, but not the kind he would wish. That glimmer was not a greeting for a familiar friend, but rather a sighting of prey. The jaws parted, and the mouth began to work furiously, open and shut, open and shut, as if shrieking without sound. Amric closed his eyes, sickened. When he opened them again, an unspoken agreement passed between him and Bellimar.
The vampire tightened his fist in the folds of material and raised the body partway from the waters as easily as if that hand had been empty. Amric slid backward a step and spun on his heel. One of his swords rang free with a sound like the chime of a bell. In a blur of motion he whirled, and his blade hammered down in a gleaming arc, cleaving through the black skull and into the chest. With one jerking spasm, the figure went still. Amric dragged his sword clear, and Bellimar laid the body gently at the edge of the pool.
Amric panted, struggling to rein in the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. He had known what to expect, he reminded himself. He had seen it happen to that hapless man when they arrived, and from that instant he had feared the worst for his own. In point of fact, he had known for weeks that death might be all he found on this mission. Soldiers die in battle, the rational part of his mind insisted, and it was, after all, far from the first time he had lost friends to the callous whims of war. It was never easy, would never be easy. His teeth ground in helpless fury. So why did it feel so different this time?
A wave of heat washed through him, and his vision went white at the edges. He fought it back, trembling and shaking his head to clear it. This was no time to succumb to whatever strange illness was plaguing him. He needed to retain control, as there were still lives to save. And lives to avenge. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles creaked.
He threw his head back, gasping for breath, and found the captives climbing the stairs. Some moved under their own power, scrambling weakly up the twisting steps. Others were pushed or half-carried by his Sil’ath warriors. He had to buy them a few more minutes. Whatever he chose to do with his own life, he could not commit theirs to the reckless act of vengeance that was burning at him from the inside. He met Valkarr’s stricken gaze as the Sil’ath hesitated, then ducked under the outstretched arm of one of the men to hasten him up the crude steps. He saw, Amric realized. He knows, and yet he does what must be done. I can do no less.
“What desecration is this?” the Nar’ath queen screeched. “Have the Adepts grown so craven that they cannot face us directly now, but instead resort to preying upon our young?”
He whirled toward her, baring his teeth. “They are not your young,” he spat. “They are not yours at all. They are my people.”
Her head drew back in confusion. “Your people? What matter to the Adepts if we harvest them before you harvest their very world? And what matter to such inconsequential beings? They are like blades of dry grass before the spreading flame. Their tiny lives are not their own, either way. At least we offer them existence, and purpose, where you offer only annihilation.”
The queen leaned forward once more, her eyes narrowing to burning slits. She swept out one arm in a violent gesture toward the retreating captives. “And when did the Adepts become concerned with the fates of such lesser beings?”
As before, he was not certain what reply to make and so he stood, seething with anger, and made none. This time it gave him away.
“False Adept!” she hissed in sudden accusation. Then she paused, cocking her head to the side. “No, you are indeed an Adept, for I can taste your power from here, and it stands apart from the weak magics of this world’s inhabitants as clearly as the full silver moon from the flickering stars. But you do not react as an Adept should, and you hesitate when no Adept would.”