Farmers & Mercenaries (44 page)

Returning his attention to the pool, he once again became mesmerized by the clarity of the Essence reflecting off the thin membrane of silver. It struck him then what he was seeing.

I am not seeing the Essence inside
of
something! I am seeing the Essence itself! This is liquid Essence, or at least Essence in its natural form. This is the Chi’utlan—a pool of Essence!

Understanding flowed into him like wine filling a chalice.

This is a place where the very Essence spills out and onto the Plane
of
Talic’Nauth! This is a source—what the Siers call an Essence Node, yet they all think they are myth!

As he watched, his eyes were drawn to a spot at his feet some three paces inside the dais. A small bump had formed on the near perfect finish of the Essence pool. He watched the bump well up, forming a small bead of silver the size of the tip of his little finger. It shimmered and danced upon the surface. It grew larger, swelling into an oblong shape about the size of his thumb. It shivered, as if from the exertion of holding up its own weight, then fell… up. His eyes followed the droplet with wonder as it streaked to the ceiling some fifty paces overhead. The droplet plopped into a huge pool that covered the roof, which was closed in by the stalagmite-stalactite pillars lining the dais. He stood with his mouth open and watched as the ripples the droplet created on the surface of the pool above him radiated out to lap gently at the rim of an upside-down bowl. The pool of Essence above his head was certainly not a thin sheet like the one covering the floor. It had depth, with a thickness that Alant’s gaze could not penetrate.

I was wrong. The stuff that covers the floor is not the Chi’utlan. The ceiling is the Chi’utlan!

He continued to stare up at the wonder clinging to the roof above him until a second droplet plunked up into the pool a short distance from the first. It added its own ripples to the now dissipating ones of the initial drop.

Glancing back down to the floor, he noticed yet another droplet forming no more than a pace from where he stood. Tentatively, he stretched out one foot and placed it on the surface of the Essence covering the floor. The silvery liquid squished out from under his golden slipper as if he had stepped into mud. He felt the firmness of the limestone beneath. Steeling himself, he added more of his weight until his trailing foot joined the first out on the shallow pool. Surrounded now by the Essence—both above and below—Alant was once again lost in the beauty and solidity of the Spectals reflected about him. He took a few more small steps into the center of the dais until he stood in front of a tiny bead-like droplet forming on the ground.

It grew at the same steady pace as the first one Alant had witnessed, and looked much like water seeping through a cloth—only upside down. It broke away and fell up, past him. Reaching out a cupped palm, he caught the droplet as it streaked toward the ceiling. Cold was the first sensation he felt. Turning his hand over, he was surprised to see that the liquid pooled in his palm instead of continuing to fall up. Moving his hand in a small circle, he swished the metallic looking liquid around, delighted to see that it remained whole, like a little ball.

It took a moment for the searing pain to penetrate the wonder he was feeling. The ball of Essence grew colder, freezing his palm to the point of burning. Instinctively, he flicked his wrist to rid himself of it, yet to his horror, instead of flying off, the ball flattened out and covered more of his palm. Grasping his wrist with his other hand, he attempted to stem the intense feeling of pain from shooting up his arm. He glanced around looking for help. The Elmorians still did not seem like they could see what was happening to him. They stood along the walls, staring at different parts of the dais. He let out an involuntary gasp of pain that made several of them glance in his direction, yet none made eye contact with him.

A wail escaped his lips as the liquid Essence burned through the soles of his shoes. He tried to turn and run back to the edge of the pool, yet his body would not obey. Fire shot up his legs, and he felt the silvery substance pour into his slippers and under his robes. He heard the screams of a man off in the distance and felt sorry for him, until he realized through the haze of pain and turmoil that he heard his own screams echoing off the distant chamber walls.

Air rushed past him before Alant realized he was falling. Falling up—toward the pool that hung over his head. He flung an arm up to protect his face before he slammed into the surface of the liquid Essence. He plunged deep into the substance, never hitting bottom. Agony racked his body from every direction. Burning cold liquid rushed into his mouth. Down his throat. Choking off his screams—making him gag and wretch. He flailed against the pain, wishing only for release. For death to come quickly and end his suffering. He became dimly aware that he had finally struck the bottom—top—of the pool. His very flesh felt as if it had been scorched away. Muscles and bone smoldered and turned to ash. In his mind, he begged for death.

The gulp of fresh air came cool and sharp. It tasted sweeter than anything he had ever savored in his life. His hands brushed a hard, sandy surface and he realized he lay on the limestone floor. He forced lids as heavy as weights open, and found himself in the center of the dais, curled into a fetal position. Bringing one hand to his face, he cautiously flexed his fingers. It amazed him to see that flesh still covered it. He felt none of the pain from moments before, and pushed himself effortlessly to his feet. He became instantly aware that eyes now rested upon him. Glancing to the door and to the faces of the Elmorians standing next to it, he saw that each of them now looked directly at him. Each seemed to have a different look
—
from fear to curiosity. Yet, when he looked at the Prince, he saw a thin, almost maniacal smile etched across the Elmorian’s face.

Moving his attention back to the ceiling, he noticed that the pool overhead sat empty. A large, natural looking bowl some three paces deep, hung above him, covering the entire span. Thick, black vine-like roots penetrated the bowl in several locations, fanning out across much of the area. Alant recognized the flesh-like black bark that wrapped those roots.

This chamber must lie directly below the Chandril’chi tree sitting in front
of
the school.

While he scanned the empty shadows where the liquid Essence had so recently filled, a small streak of light shot past him, and he watched a drop of silvery Essence splat inside the dome and slide down—up—to the center of the bowl. Glancing around at his feet, he noticed other spots on the ground showing signs of liquid Essence seeping through the dais.

Without understanding why, Alant felt an urgency to remove himself from the platform. He did not have a desire to return to the Elmorians and their guards, so he continued forward, crossing to the far side of the dais opposite the natural ramp he had entered from. Squeezing between two stalagmite-stalactite posts, he hopped down to the floor on the other side of the room. His spirits sank with the realization that the chamber held no alternate exits apart from the double doors he had used to enter the room.

Looking back, Alant saw the Prince grasp Delmith by the cuff of his robe with one hand, a look of euphoria passing over his inhuman face.
"Well, Delmith, it seems that our little rat has survived, would you agree?"
Though the words he spoke were not loud, they echoed throughout the chamber.
"It has worked! The Essence is ready! No more shall we have to fear the Age of Power!"
The Elmorian tongue still sounded odd as it translated inside Alant’s mind. He was distantly aware of the fact that the Tarsith had not gone cold against his skin. Delmith stood staring in what Alant could only describe as stunned silence.

"Gralets!"
Contempt dripped from Prince Aritian’s loud call. The two Gralet’nars who had escorted them had remained outside the chamber. They now rushed into the room at his command, and the Prince pointed toward Alant.
"Kill the Human!"

The Prince’s command struck Alant to the core. Fear filled him as the Essence had moments before. Running to the far wall, he pressed his back against the cool limestone. Both Warrior Servants advanced, parting around the dais like huge gray boulders rolling down a hill, each coming to either side, cutting off all routes of escape. Stopping a few score paces from him, they raised their heavy crossbows and took aim. Never before having his life threatened, Alant stood frozen with fear. In almost perfect unison, the twang of two strings slapping against staves echoed through the chamber. Alant watched as the bolts, their pristine white fletching spinning them smoothly through the air, tore across the empty space separating them.

Or is it empty?

All of a sudden, Alant noticed that… something… hung in the air all around him. Wisps of lines flowed all about him, swirling and interacting with each other and all the things in the room. It reminded him of seeing Spectals from the Essence, yet not exactly the same. It was as if the Spectals had been stretched into strings instead of their normal round dot shape.

No. Not strings, more like
…
Strands. Strands of the Essence. Still, it is an Essence gone mad! The air contains no Essence, the Essence is inside
solid
objects!

Even as he chastised himself, knowing he could not see what he now saw, he knew he
did
see it. The swirls formed the very air—so very unlike the Spectals of the Essence—and danced before him. He reached out with his mind. Could he touch these… Strands? He was amazed to make contact. Experimentally, he pulled on a strand. It moved to his will. He almost laughed, and reached out further with his mind, connecting with every strand of…

Of
what? Not Spectals certainly! Still, made
of
the Essence, no less!

He balled them up, unwrapped them, drew them forth, and sent them away. Lost in the revelry of this new experience, a spasm of panic racked him when he remembered that death had been shot at him. Should have long since pierced his breast and left him bleeding—dying. He jerked his head up and his jaw dropped open. Two crossbow bolts hung in the air a few paces from him. He knew they still raced toward him, of that, he was certain. Though, he had no idea of how he knew. Still, he felt he could walk up to them and pluck them from their course. He looked past them and saw that everyone else in the room stood frozen as well. Like living statues, alive and unmoving.

Reality has stopped! Is this what happens when you die?

He started to move aside, to remove himself from the path of certain death, and found that his body would not cooperate. Glancing down, he noticed that he stood frozen in place as well.

It is not the Plane that has stopped. It is that my consciousness has sped!

Looking back at the bolts, he noticed that they drew closer—still slicing through the air.

They are moving! I am sure
of
it! Not frozen then, just slowed.

Curious, he reached out further with his mind. He could feel the Strands of Essence surrounding the bolts. See how the Strands followed the bolt, led it. He almost understood how they twisted and slid away from the approaching projectiles. He took a Strand and wrapped it experimentally around one shaft. Without understanding what he was doing or how, he pulled the Strand tight, nudging it slightly to the side. The bolt continued on its painfully slow trajectory. Yet, with the Strand attached to it, he noticed that the bolt began to turn. It followed the new direction he had set using the weird Strand of Essence. Reaching out to the other bolt, he repeated what he had done to the first. Once finished, he stepped back and realized he had not been in his body.

I am floating outside my physical form! How am I to return?

Terror gripped him, and he forced it down. Focusing, he slipped back into his mortal confines. He did not know how, he just did what seemed natural.

As if
any
of
this is natural!

Two loud thunks slammed into his ears as the bolts embedded themselves into the soft limestone wall on either side of him. Snapping his head to the side, he felt his stomach lurch. One of the bolts rested no more than a hands width from his head.

It would have pierced my eye!

"Fools! You missed!"
Prince Aritian’s hiss echoed across the large chamber.
"Kill him! Kill him now before it is too late!"

The Gralet’nars dropped their crossbows and drew their long, sickle-like swords. With only a moments hesitation, they dashed across the room toward Alant.

Noticing that he no longer saw any of the Essence strings from before, Alant tried to reach out with his mind once more. Tried to regain the distorted Sight of the Essence he had achieved when reality had slowed. Yet, he had no idea how he had done it in the first place. Lunging forward, thinking to dash across the dais, Alant was cut off as one of the Gralet’nars hopped in front of him, forcing him back against the wall, once more trapped.

He had to get away, find some way out. Terror gripped him as he watched the Gralet’nars approach, their bulging arms rippling as they gripped their swords. They closed in for the kill. One stepped forward and raised his blade over a shoulder, preparing to slash Alant in twain.

It cannot end this way! I must escape!

Snap!

Pain laced up Alant’s arm, and the Gralet’nar lowered its sword, befuddlement painted across his eyeless face. Alant looked down at his arm and was horrified to see that it had shattered, crumpled into a hideous awkward bend as it rolled up upon itself.

Crack! Crack!

A scream burst from his lungs and Alant slumped to the floor. Both his legs bent back and twisted upon themselves. Through the pain, he saw both Gralet’nars back away. One of them held an arm up as if to protect its face against what it saw.