A meandering crack split the stone at Amric’s feet. The vast hole that had been the top of the hive was growing rapidly; the ragged edge crumbled toward him like a voracious, widening maw that meant to consume him as well.
Amric turned and ran.
His body was bruised and battered, his every nerve tingling, and it felt as if he had been somehow singed from the inside. He pushed it all from his mind as best he could. Right now, to run was to live, and the fates be damned but he was going to run. He ran down the slope at a reckless pace, hurdling cracks as they yawned before him and skirting the sinkholes that opened like sores in the earth. The surface of the dome was decaying, softening from stone to sand, and seemed to catch at his boots as he pounded over it. His footing was far too treacherous to risk a look back, but his fevered imagination put the collapsing edge at his very heels.
He hurled himself past the last bit, leaping through the air to strike the sand of the wasteland. He rolled several times and came to his knees, gasping for breath. He was just in time to see the last remnants of the hive vanish beneath a crashing wave of sand, sending a plume of dust high into the night sky. Where the imposing structure had been, there was nothing left but a broad, shallow crater in the desert.
Amric sagged back on his haunches, shuddering with reaction. The strange presence flitted and circled within him, almost giddy, while he only felt a chilling numbness inside. He turned his hands over, staring down at them as if they were not his own. Wisps of smoke rose in slow curls from his fingers.
The whicker of horses caused him to lift his head. The others drew rein a short distance away, their eyes wide as they stared at him. Valkarr rode at the head of the group. Amric searched his friend’s expression, seeking any clue as to what he was feeling at the moment: revulsion, fear, anything. But the Sil’ath’s face was frozen in shock, and revealed nothing.
Bellimar urged his horse forward, edging past Valkarr’s blue dun. Incredulity and triumph warred within his ancient eyes.
“Swordsman,” he whispered. “Your aura-”
“I know,” Amric mumbled, looking back at his hands. “I know.”
In truth, he could feel the power still radiating from him like the heat from a bonfire. He closed his eyes, trying to shut it all out. He had asked for this, had invited it to emerge, had all but demanded that it fully join with him. But it was too much, too fast, and it felt like it was consuming him from the inside. The strange presence within him faltered, sensing his rejection. Its elation faded, eclipsed by rising puzzlement and concern.
Amric heard several of the riders slide from their mounts, heard the thumps as their boots hit the ground. Tentative steps approached him where he knelt. He felt them gathering around him, but no one touched him, and nothing else broke the silence except his ragged breathing.
Nothing, that is, until a sharp crackling began in the night air.
Amric’s head snapped up. He felt a jarring sense of panic come from the other within him, and that brimming presence fled, winking out of existence so quickly that Amric was left reeling at its sudden absence. He expected to feel an abiding sense of relief to be free of it, and instead he felt only… empty.
A fiery rift appeared in the air above the crest of a nearby dune. It split wide like an opening wound, and through it stepped a man in black robes. The rent closed behind him with a sizzling hiss. The stranger was tall, with a dark beard, and he held himself like a man prepared for war. His gaze swung toward them, and a humorless smile spread across the hard edges of his features. Amric could feel the man’s power even over the distance, blazing like a beacon in the night. Somehow he knew, without the slightest hint of doubt, what type of creature they were now looking upon.
This, then, was a true Adept.
This was the creature that struck fear in the black heart of the Nar’ath queen, the monstrosity that had nearly killed them all.
And it might well be his own kind.
CHAPTER 23
Borric skimmed at the surface of consciousness from the underside. To his fevered imagination, it seemed he was being carried in the belly of some great shuddering beast as it raced over hill and valley, and he wanted to scream out in defiance at his fate. For brief moments he would propel himself upward to crest that surface and steal breath from the waking world. Each time he was rewarded by the cool night breeze whispering across his face and the barest glimpses of tall, rustling grasses waving at him as he passed over them. Then jaws of darkness would close over him once again, and he was back in the belly of the beast.
Borric crashed to the ground, and white-hot pain lanced through his broken arm. An involuntary cry escaped through his clenched teeth as he was expelled into full consciousness at last, and he writhed onto his back to remove the weight from his crushed limb. He began to push himself upright with his uninjured arm when he looked up and his surroundings swam into focus. He froze in place.
He had no idea how long he had been unconscious since the frenzied battle in the streets of Keldrin’s Landing, but the night was still deep and absolute and untouched by any interference from the dawn. He was lying atop a low hillock in the rolling grasslands, far from the city now. An insistent moon soaked the thick clouds above from behind with a soft, silvery glow, and if not for that muted light he would have been hard pressed to see even a hand’s breadth before him.
As it was, however, he had no trouble at all discerning the black creature looming above him.
Borric’s breath lodged in his throat as he braced for an attack, but the fiend stood motionless, nearly astride him, silhouetted against that argent sky. A long strip of its ragged, cloth-like wrappings trailed across his leg, and he had to fight the overwhelming urge to fling the loathsome object away from him. He realized the monster was not even looking in his direction. Instead, it faced to the south and was poised as if listening intently to some distant sound. He cast a surreptitious glance about, seeking the means to strike a blow while his captor was distracted, but his own weapons were gone and he could not see so much as a rock nearby in the darkness.
When the creature moved, Borric started so hard that he nearly left the ground. It took a dragging step forward, its vacant ebon face still raised to the south. A chorus of dry rustling sounds on all sides brought Borric’s head whipping around, and the captain of the city guard realized with a sinking feeling that hundreds of the creatures were all around him. They were all standing taut, seemingly uncertain, just as the one above him. Scattered moans and sobs revealed that other captives had been dropped to the earth as well.
The creatures all surged forward in unison, a sudden black wave that went from standstill to sprint in the blink of an eye. Borric’s erstwhile captor vanished from sight, swallowed by the tall grasses. The grizzled soldier had but a moment’s flicker of relief before the muffled thunder of hundreds of black feet brought him around. A steady stream of the creatures rushed by him on either side, heedless of his presence, and he twisted and dodged as best he could from his position on the ground to avoid their passage. One struck him a glancing blow as it rushed by him; it was not an attack but rather an incidental collision, but it was enough to spin him halfway around and send him sprawling. His shoulder throbbed like it had been struck with an iron bar as he rose with caution from the dirt, but the creature ran on without sparing a backward glance. Sharp cries from all around told him that others were not so fortunate in avoiding the stampede.
It seemed an endless number of the foul creatures had flowed around him when finally it ended, and the last of the attackers passed into the night. Borric rose to unsteady feet and looked around. More dim figures were rising from the grasses, and he saw a number of people pulling others to their feet or supporting them to stand.