chapter 10
Amric slammed his fist into the metal door and glowered at it, as if the seething intensity of his fury could do what physical efforts had not. There was no sound from the other side. The traitorous Wyrgen had either rendered Halthak unconscious or taken him from the chamber.
At his side, Valkarr lashed out at the door with his sword; an array of sparks flowered in the gloom, but the glinting surface of the door was barely marred. The Sil’ath let out an angry hiss between bared teeth. The warriors exchanged dark looks, and Valkarr stepped back to crouch in the shadows behind the door while Amric turned and stalked down the stairs. As he descended, the swordsman cursed himself for a fool. He had witnessed first-hand the speed of the Wyrgens, and yet had allowed the enemy to separate them and gain the momentary advantage of position.
Now they might all pay for his mistake with their lives.
In the chamber below, Bellimar and the prisoner Syth had not moved. Their faces were drawn with apprehension, but otherwise they were a study in opposites. The old man stood still and straight, cloak wrapped about him, eyes gleaming, a storm roiling beneath a calm surface. In the cage, Syth had his feet planted wide apart and his fists clenched, and his clothing swirled and whipped about his lean frame in a frenzy of motion. Amric stalked across the room and stabbed a finger at the man who claimed to be half wind elemental.
“Did you know aught of this?” he demanded.
“If you could not guess, I am not privy to that demented beast’s plans,” Syth retorted. “I warned you that Grelthus planned betrayal of some kind, though I did not then know what form it would take.”
“A man in a cage does not inspire trust,” Amric snapped.
“Remember your words when some other fellow finds you here months from now.”
Amric sighed, and struggled to rein in his anger. “I apologize, Syth. My worry for my friend, now a captive of that mad creature, has sharpened my tongue.”
Syth regarded him a moment, a sneer twisting his lips as his hair swirled before his face. Then he grunted and waved a hand in curt dismissal.
“How did you know Grelthus intended betrayal?” Bellimar asked. “Did he know of our approach, and perhaps speak of his plans?”
Syth shook his head. “No, but I am not the first captive Grelthus has held here. I am merely the last. Grelthus was uncertain as to what use my magical nature could be in his efforts to cure his people, but at the same time he was unwilling to dispense with a potentially useful subject. Others were more clearly valuable––or clearly not so––and thus did not last as long.” His jaw clenched and his eyes blazed. “For the first time in my life, I find I am thankful to be an enigma.”
Amric studied the unusual man, reading anguish and rage in every line of his bearing. He found himself believing that the fellow had survived a great deal, and his own thoughts darkened as he considered the implications for Halthak.
“Syth, are there any other exits from this chamber?” he said.
“These transparent walls can be raised somehow, if one is insane enough to flee in the direction of the Essence Fount. Doing so requires the same key device as the door above, however, and though the door mechanism seems simple enough, I have not seen how the viewing walls are triggered.”
Amric frowned, his gaze raking over the bare room. “And your cage, how is it opened?”
“Again, it requires one of those cube-keys that Grelthus always carries upon his person,” Syth responded.
Amric muttered an oath, stalking around the perimeter of the cage. “The trap was well laid; this chamber is devoid of anything we can use to escape. If only we had a heavy table like the one in the upper chamber, we could use it to block these bars of fire long enough for you to leap out, or to force a crack by ramming it into the thick glass wall.”
“I like your thinking, swordsman,” Syth said with an approving nod. “But while your idea might work on my cage, it would fail to even scratch this strange, clear wall, just as your blades will be useless in that regard. The Wyrgen could be quite garrulous, with just a hint of caress to his ego, and he told me once that the viewing walls are not made of anything so fragile as glass, despite their appearance. Rather, he confided to me with no small degree of pride, they are constructed of some strange material, harder than stone, which is as impervious to physical damage as it is to the radiant energy of that accursed fountain.”
“The walls are not as invulnerable as Grelthus would have you believe,” Bellimar remarked, “if the Fount’s eruption breached so many of the viewing chambers.”
“Aye,” Amric said, drawing one of his swords. “And perhaps those that remain were weakened in that initial explosion, or by the subsequent months of exposure to the Fount’s energies. In any event, I am not inclined to wait here on the Wyrgen’s whim without exploring every option. If we can wrest one of those keys from Grelthus, we can return here to free you from that cage.”
“I might have an easier way,” Syth commented, halting the swordsman in mid-step. The prisoner reached inside the rippling folds of his robes and drew forth an object which he then held high in the air for all to see. Perched on his outstretched fingertips, luminous in the shifting hues of the fountain, was one of the peculiar cube-shaped key devices used by the Wyrgens.
“How did you come by it?” Bellimar asked, arching a silver eyebrow.
Syth gave a harsh laugh and twirled the cube between his fingers before making it dance across the back of his knuckles. “I took it from Grelthus’s tunic without him knowing, one time when he passed too close to my cage. At the time, I was kept in the chamber above, though he put an end to that. Oh, how long I practiced for that moment, and when my chance came, it was executed without flaw! Thought I had caught my robes afire for a moment, but nay, it was a clean grab. Grelthus was livid when he discovered it missing, and naturally he turned his suspicion upon me, but in the end I convinced him that I had last seen it amid the clutter of his table. He procured another, but he was, regrettably, much more guarded around me after that.”
A hard grin spread across his features. “I invited him to join me in the cage and search my person for the key, but he declined.”
“A moment ago you were protesting your innocence,” Bellimar chided, the corner of his mouth quirked in a slight smile.
“I said I had harmed none of the Wyrgens in my capture,” Syth said. “I never denied being a thief, and a rather accomplished one at that.”
“Damn your hide, Syth!” Amric growled. “If you had shared this earlier, we could have pursued Grelthus before he gained such a lead.”
He strode toward the cage, but Syth waved his hand in a flourish and the metal cube vanished from sight. “Not just yet, friend,” he said, wagging his index finger back and forth. “I had to make certain you would free me first, and while your attitude thus far has been laudable, I will nonetheless require your promise on the matter before I pass the key over to you.”
“You have it,” Amric said, holding out one hand. “From the moment you spoke, I had no intent of leaving you in the grasp of a madman.”
“Noble words. Swear it,” Syth gritted.
Amric caught and held the man’s gaze with his own. “I swear, if it be within my power, that I will free you from this cage and from Stronghold as well. If I cannot free you, I will end your life if you wish it, rather than leave you as a captive here.”
Syth’s eyes narrowed, searching the swordsman’s, and then he gave a slow nod. A flick of his wrist brought the cube into view once more, and he peeled back a billowing sleeve to thrust one sinewy arm between the bars of the cage, careful not to let the crackling blue fire contact his flesh. Amric lifted the device from the man’s palm, finding it lighter than expected, and he studied it as he stepped back from the cage. It was metal, as he had already observed, its outer surface etched with an intricate tracework of fine lines that pulsed faintly with contained energy. He grimaced. Magic and more magic; he was surrounded by that which he sought most to avoid.
“Quickly now, how do I use it to open your cage?” he asked.
“This cage sits atop a glowing pad of some kind, which powers the bars,” Syth said. “Look for a metal panel set into the stone of the wall here, it will appear much like the stone but will be glossier and smoother to the touch.”
Amric located the panel, smooth and featureless amid the coarser stone of the wall. “Found it. Now what?”
“Press the cube to the panel and give it a twist, and the bars should extinguish.”
He did so, and the brilliant blue shafts sizzled and winked out, leaving the brooding metal husk dull and lifeless in their wake. Syth eyed where the barrier had been for a moment, as if disbelieving its absence, then sprang from the cage in one lithe movement. He stretched his hands over his head as high as he could reach, and then leapt into the air in a tight spin before landing cat-like on his feet once more.
“Magnificent!” he exulted. “Many thanks, my friends! At this moment, even the fetid air of this cave of jackals seems sweet indeed. Let us depart this foul place without further delay, for I have not felt the kiss of sunlight upon my face for far too long.”
“Soon enough,” Amric said, striding for the stairwell. “We are going after our companion first.”
Syth darted across the room to halt before him, blocking his path, and Amric felt an accompanying gust of wind brush across his skin.
“Hold a moment,” said Syth. “Stronghold is infested with savage, mindless beasts that enjoy nothing more than to dismember intruders. This place is a veritable maze, warrior. I have seen the maps spread across Grelthus’s table, and tried to study them without him knowing, against my eventual escape. Even if Grelthus survives to reach whatever destination he has in mind, and even if you can survive wandering the corridors as well, you still have no idea where they have gone and you do not even know the layout of this place. I hate to say it, but your friend is gone.”
“We are not leaving him behind,” Amric said, stepping to the side to pass around the man, but the latter slid back and to the side to remain before him, standing at the foot of the stairwell and barring its entrance.
“I did not regain my freedom only to exchange it for my very life on a fool’s errand,” Syth said, an edge of iron to his voice.
“No one is asking it of you, thief. You are free to go your own way,” Amric said. “Now move out of my way, or it won’t be the Wyrgens who take your life.”
Syth’s eyes narrowed, and he thrust out one hand, palm up. “Give me back the key, then.”
“You know that I need it to pursue Grelthus,” Amric returned. “The key stays with me.”
“And you know that I cannot escape Stronghold without it,” Syth said. He bared his teeth in a cold smile. “Perhaps I take it from you. I have been watching you, swordsman. You are suffering from odd spells of illness in this place, and I am a dangerous man. Can you protect yourself from me, in your condition? Do you trust your body not to betray you at the crucial moment?”
“Yes, on both counts,” Amric answered at once, though he spoke with more confidence than he felt, for the unexplained bouts of dizziness continued to gnaw at him. “Furthermore, my companions will help ensure that we waste time on this foolish squabble later.”
Syth opened his mouth and then abruptly stiffened, his retort frozen upon his lips. Valkarr appeared behind him like a ghost in the shadowy recesses of the stairwell, the razor tip of his sword pressed against the thief’s spine and encouraging him to an attentive posture. Syth’s eyes flicked to the side, but whatever reaction he might have had was instantly quelled as a second blade caressed his throat from the front. He sucked in a startled breath, and even the incessant breeze swirling about him fell to a whisper. His gaze traveled up that length of shining steel, to where it projected from Amric’s fist, and past that to traverse an arm sheathed in muscle which seemed not plagued at all by illness at the moment, and further yet to find eyes as cold as winter staring back at him.
“You have a choice now, thief, and be thankful for it,” Amric said softly. “Your life can end here as a spreading pool of blood on uncaring stone. Or you can find your own way from Stronghold, and I wish you luck on your journey. Or you can accompany us, and help rescue a man who would do the same for you without hesitation, were your situations reversed.”
Syth’s throat bobbed against the keen edge of the blade as he made to swallow before thinking better of the idea.
“I saw the anguish on your face when you spoke of what the Wyrgen has done to you and other captives,” Amric continued. “Would you argue to leave another in his clutches, now that you have won your own freedom?”
“Very well, I will help,” Syth said through clenched teeth. “I will delight in seeing to it that Grelthus never claims another victim.” Despite his evident care in speaking, a spot of crimson welled at his throat where the blade touched. Amric held his stance a moment longer, then withdrew his sword, though he did not return it to its scabbard upon his back.
“Good,” Amric said with a twisting smile. “We can renew our efforts to kill each other after we escape Stronghold alive.”
Behind the man, Valkarr let his weapon drop as well. Syth let out a breath and put his hand to his neck. Amric moved past him and bounded up the stairs, while Valkarr waited for the thief and followed close at his heels. Bellimar brought up the rear. By the time the others reached the door, Amric had it unlocked and was stalking through the cluttered chamber beyond.
“A moment, while I reclaim what is mine,” Syth murmured, pausing at the long table. He shoved stacks of debris aside, his movements growing almost frantic as he searched for something. With a growl of triumph, he lifted the black metal gauntlets that Amric had seen there earlier. Syth donned them immediately, flexing the cleverly jointed fingers several times and inspecting the ebon-clawed tips. A wicked grin spread across his features.
“Now I am ready,” he said.
Amric frowned. A flicker of something––pain, or perhaps relief––had twisted the man’s expression when he regained the devices. He turned to scan the chamber. “You mentioned seeing maps of Stronghold here before. Do you see them now?”
Syth shook his head. “I tried to examine them without drawing the attention of Grelthus, but he caught me one day and removed them all from the room. I know not where he hid them.”
“How much do you remember of them?” Bellimar asked. The old man carried Halthak’s discarded staff, and was circling the table as he studied its contents.
“Some,” the thief admitted, “though it has been weeks now since I saw them. And I was more intent on plotting my eventual escape route from the fortress than looking for the bastard’s sanctuaries. Still, I recall him marking certain rooms and shading sections of the map to demarcate paths of high and low activity.”
“Take us to the nearest,” Amric said. He moved to the closed metal door and employed the key once more, then pocketed the device. He glanced back, looking to each of them until he received a nod in return, and then he cracked the door and peered out into the hallway beyond. It was still and silent as a tomb, lit along its length by those unwavering, flameless lamps. He waved the others forward, easing the door fully open and drawing his remaining sword.
“Tell me, thief,” he said. “Were your earlier words boastful or true? Are you truly a good hand in a fight?”
“You will find out soon enough,” Syth responded with a fierce grin.
They slipped into the empty corridor.
Awareness returned to Halthak in measured stages. First came the throbbing, like a steady, ruthless drum inside his skull. Second, as by reflex he tried to put a hand to his head, he realized his hands were bound behind him. His eyes flared open. He was lying prostrate on a stone floor, and he sighted along the cold flagstones against which his cheek was pressed. Memory began to make a grudging return as well. He recalled entering the darkened stairwell with water pitcher in hand for the prisoner Syth when a bulky silhouette hurtled up the stairs and filled his vision. He had flinched to the side in an effort to avoid the onrushing mass, but it caught him in a grasp like iron and dashed him against the wall behind him. His head struck the unforgiving granite, and the world was torn from him for a time.
Halthak surveyed his surroundings, or at least what little he was able to from his lowly vantage point. He was in another viewing chamber, with the Essence Fount’s lurid hues flickering against the stone. At first he thought it was the same chamber he had vacated, and perhaps he had fallen down the stairs, but the contents of the room told him different. The other viewing chamber had been almost empty except for Syth’s cage, and this room contained a row of smaller tables hemmed in by stacks of crates and other clutter. He could see no more from his current orientation, as he was facing a corner where the stone and glass walls met. There was a faint shimmer of reflection in the transparent material of the viewing wall, but it was not sufficient to perceive any additional detail in the room at his back.
And he would very much like to see more, as something was moving behind him in the chamber.
He listened to the shuffling sounds of movement, accompanied by bursts of low muttering. There was a pause followed by the clink of metal upon metal, and then the movement resumed. There was nothing for it, Halthak decided; he gained little by remaining in this position, pretending to be unconscious still. He needed to assess his situation, to determine where he was and how many of his companions were present. With a grunt of effort, he heaved himself to a sitting position and fought back a wave of dizziness.
The muttering stopped.
“Excellent, you are awake,” said a deep, guttural voice. “We can begin.”
The world swam into focus, and Halthak found himself staring into the dark, liquid eyes of Grelthus, as the Wyrgen sank into a crouch before him. A quick scan of the room showed that he was alone with his captor; it also revealed a chamber with a much more functional arrangement than the other viewing chamber had evinced. Several tables were large enough for a man to lie upon, and thick leather straps sprouting from their surfaces confirmed their dark purpose. Interspersed with these were smaller tables, replete with metal implements of various sinister designs. A cylindrical device squatted at the center of the room, rising almost to the ceiling. It bulged outward at its middle, coursing with strange energy, and shiny black cables snaked from it to various points within the room. Looking upon it, Halthak was struck by the impression of some great nest of wasps, teeming inside with obscene life.
Grelthus continued to watch him as he examined the chamber, and the Wyrgen’s muzzle began a slow nod as grim realization stole over the Half-Ork.
“Yes, you are apprised of your situation now,” Grelthus said. “We will not be disturbed here.”
“Where are my companions?” Halthak demanded. “Have you harmed them?”
The Wyrgen’s grizzled head tilted to the side, and one tufted ear twitched. He lashed out with one powerful arm in a blur of motion. Halthak found himself on his back, his head ringing from the blow, and the stinging wetness of his own blood running down the side of his face. He blinked a few times and drew in ragged breaths until his vision cleared. Then, with a laborious combination of levering his bound arms and squirming, he sat up again. Grelthus still crouched before him, impassive expression unchanged.
“This will be a conversation only in the sense that I will ask questions and you will answer them,” the Wyrgen rumbled. “It is best that you learn this lesson quickly, for we have much to do.”
Halthak said nothing, glaring at the creature. Blood trickled down his whiskered jaw and into the neck of his robes. Grelthus nodded and stood, towering over him, and waved one clawed hand in a permissive gesture.
“Good, then we have an understanding. You may heal yourself now, and we will begin again.”
Halthak began to do just that; he reached for his magic and was rewarded by its ready surge, an invigorating suffusion of warmth spreading through him. Ridding himself of the infernal pounding ache in his head would enable him to think more clearly, and he would need his wits about him if he hoped to escape the Wyrgen and rejoin his companions. But then, as he was on the verge of directing the gathered healing energy with a familiar effort of will, some instinct made him pause. He could feel the weight of the Wyrgen’s gaze upon him still, burning in its intensity, and that very eagerness nagged at him. His addled thoughts congealed into suspicions and struggled to chain together.
Grelthus had isolated him from the others by sending him for the water pitcher while ostensibly remaining under guard in the chamber below. Rather than escape alone, the Wyrgen had instead assaulted him and brought him to this new room, unconscious and bound. If his captor’s words were to be believed, the healer was now beyond rescue, and the Wyrgen had plans for him. Upon finding himself captive, Halthak had at first seen himself as the only viable choice; the warriors were far too skilled in combat to subdue easily, and there was something mysterious and unsettling about Bellimar that made him a less likely choice as well, despite his apparent age.
That left Halthak as the most vulnerable. But why take a hostage at all? Grelthus could have used his superior knowledge of Stronghold’s labyrinthine layout to evade pursuit and leave them all behind, trapped and lost. For that matter, why draw them deep into the heart of Stronghold in the first place? If his goal from the beginning had been to see them slain, he could have left them to the tender mercies of his corrupted brethren without ever so much as showing himself.
It followed then that Grelthus had thought to make use of them in some way, and now wanted something from Halthak. Admittedly, the conversation could have become adversarial after Halthak left the room to fetch the pitcher, but he had heard no sounds of conflict from below, no voices raised in heated exchange. And if the Wyrgen had meant to trap them all in the chamber below, he could have left Halthak there at the top of the stairwell, sagging to the floor after being hurled against the wall.
Assuming his selection was purposeful, then, Halthak began to work back from there. He recalled Syth’s bitter words about Grelthus keeping the thief around until some use could be made of the man’s half elemental nature, and his warning that Grelthus would only have led them deep into Stronghold for the same reason, to feature somehow in his experiments. Halthak then thought of when he had healed Valkarr’s minor injury after the skirmish with the infected Wyrgens in the corridor, and Grelthus’s wide-eyed fascination with the demonstration of healing magic, and suddenly the pieces fell together. Halthak cursed himself for not seeing the obvious earlier.
Grelthus was after his healing magic.
The Wyrgen was desperate to cure his people, and was grasping at any chance to further that effort, no matter how remote that chance, and no matter the cost. He must have felt that fortune had smiled upon him at last when a strange group of intruders fell into his clutches, one of them possessing healing magic. He wanted Halthak to employ his talent now, under observation, in order to study and harness it. Halthak tested the chain of logic, and it held.
And as he looked ahead to where the chain led, he quailed inside.
Feeling the Wyrgen’s unwavering stare still upon him, Halthak closed his eyes and furrowed his brow, as if in concentration. After a few seconds he released his gathered magic, letting it dissipate, and donned what he hoped was an expression of frustration.
“I am blocked somehow,” he said, looking up at Grelthus. “My magic gathers but I cannot focus it. It might be the blow to my head, or the nearness of the Essence Fount, causing interference.”
The Wyrgen’s eyes narrowed. “Your magic worked well enough earlier, when you healed your friend. You were not hindered then by proximity to the Fount.”
“Then it must be the knock to the head. This has happened before,” Halthak lied.
Grelthus growled, and his claws twitched as his long ears folded back against his skull. “Perhaps you merely lack proper motivation.”
“I just need a few minutes for my head to clear,” the Half-Ork stammered. “Any injury now will only lead to additional delay.”
His captor eyed him, disbelief evident upon his wolf-like face. Then he relaxed, and shrugged his massive shoulders. “No matter,” he said. “We have time. I have questions to ask that will aid in my study, and so long as you are cooperative in answering them, your head can clear without interference.”
The Wyrgen sank into a crouch before him once more, elbows resting on furry knees while wickedly curved claws dangled directly in Halthak’s line of sight. This close, the thick, musky scent of the creature was almost overpowering.
“How long have you had your talent?”
“As long as I recall, so I suspect I was born with it,” Halthak answered. “I became aware of it as a child.”
“Did either of your parents possess any magical ability?”
“My mother did not,” the Half-Ork said, his jaw tightening. “I never knew my father, but I found it doubtful he had any such ability.”
The Wyrgen studied his expression, and then nodded. “What are the limits to your healing?”
“I can repair any simple injury to the body, though it might take repeated ministrations if the wounds are too severe for me to absorb at one time. There are some progressive diseases I have been unable to affect in any lasting way, and magical afflictions are often difficult or impossible to draw into myself, as they can be resistant to leaving their host.” He paused, pondering. “And the dead are entirely beyond my power,” he added after a moment.
“This is not surprising,” Grelthus said. “There must be some spark of life in your subject with which your magic can interact. You send your magic flowing into your patient, then? And it transfers the wound into you, to be healed there, as I saw earlier?”
The healer nodded.
“What of the other way?”
Halthak blinked. “I do not understand.”
“You describe a flow of magic from yourself to another, used to fetch damage. Could you instead send it? How well can you control this flow of energy?”
“You mean––you suggest––to inflict injury instead of heal?” the healer asked, brow furrowing. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“To strike at a foe, of course,” Grelthus said, his snout wrinkling to reveal the tips of his fangs.
“I have never attempted it,” Halthak whispered, aghast at the very notion. “No, I do not believe it can be done.” But even as he said it, he wondered. He recalled how it felt when the magic gathered within him, roiling and eager, and how it responded to his unspoken direction. He considered how even the tools of medicine were double-edged, how a misused scalpel was a weapon and the incorrect dose of an herb could kill instead of cure. These things and more he turned over in his mind, and he wondered.
“What if you do not recall your magic? Would it remain in the other?” the Wyrgen asked.
Halthak shook his head. “There is some current from one to the other, but it bridges between participants during the healing process, and the magic flows across this link. It is shared at that moment, not fully in one or the other. If physical contact is broken, the magic returns immediately to me by means I do not understand, its work unfinished.”
Grelthus grunted. “Perhaps. There are means by which to forcibly extract Essence from creatures, just as there are methods to prevent its return.”
Halthak felt a chill course through him at both the words and the utter indifference with which they were spoken.
The Wyrgen rose to his full height and turned away in a smooth, unhurried movement. He padded over to a low table, and began sorting through its contents. Halthak could see nothing past the creature’s broad back, but the clink of metal floated to his straining ears. When Grelthus swung to face him again, he cradled in his large paws a glinting, metallic device of strange design. It looked something like a long lance point affixed to a heavy handle, with four curved blades projecting from its base above the handle and tapering like talons back to the central shaft. A crystal globe the size of a man’s fist was embedded there amid the clutch of blades, and within that sphere a murky green radiance swirled and eddied.
“We have reached the limits of what may be learned from discourse alone, healer,” Grelthus said. His hard features were lit from beneath by the emerald glow as he started forward. “Now we must encourage your reticent healing talent to reveal itself in earnest.”
Amric knew the instant he entered the chamber that it would be much like the others, and at the same time, very much unlike them.
He tucked away the cube-key device and pushed open the now unlocked door with his free hand, noting with surprise how the door wobbled very slightly on its hinges. He slipped through into the room like a stalking leopard, one sword extended. The others followed him, fanning out into the chamber in silence. They had been exceedingly fortunate thus far, as they stole like ghosts through the winding innards of Stronghold, in that they had not yet run across any of Grelthus’s corrupted brethren. They had taken pains to guard this good fortune, using hand signals in place of conversation when possible, and speaking in hushed whispers only when it could no longer be avoided. No amount of quiet on their part, however, could mask the scent of their passage, should the wild occupants of the fortress chance across their trail.
Most of the doors they encountered had been locked. Amric recalled Grelthus’s rueful comment about how the infected Wyrgens could no longer manipulate even so rudimentary a tool as the key device, and it seemed Grelthus had used this fact to his advantage in securing entire sections of the place from their intrusion. This room was identical in most ways to the last several they had traversed, dusty and empty but for isolated stacks of mundane clutter, but it was also different in several key respects.
First of all, this room led to a viewing chamber below, as they had not seen since departing the room in which Grelthus had trapped them; Amric knew this by the shimmering hues registering faintly in the gloom through the open door at the far end of the chamber. Second, that thick metal door had yielded to violent stress, for it hung loose on its top hinge, bent and warped as if by some titanic wrathful hand. For the third and final difference, the swordsman was struck as he crossed the threshold by a wave of dizziness and nausea, even more potent than he had felt when looking upon the Essence Fount through the wall of glass. His breath came in labored gasps, hissing between clenched teeth, and his knuckles whitened on his sword hilt as his vision darkened at the edges. He felt like a war horse had kicked him in the midsection, and then sat upon his chest for good measure.
Bellimar appeared at his elbow, his pale forehead creased in expressions that were by turn appraising and concerned. Again, the others seemed unaffected. An icy weight settled in the pit of his stomach as he wondered if his lack of aura somehow made him more vulnerable to the Fount’s effects. Would it kill him outright, or would he become savage and twisted like the Wyrgens, turning upon his friends without a glimmer of recognition? Even as his thoughts darkened, the strange affliction receded somewhat, the weight upon him lessening. He dragged in several deep breaths, forcing his weakness behind an inner wall forged of anger and determination. While it did not dissipate entirely, he found he was free to operate once more.
Syth stared at him with one eyebrow raised. “This is madness. We could spend a lifetime within these stone walls and never find the Half-Ork. And in your condition, you will be of no use at all if we blunder into a group of Wyrgens.”
“You talk too much, Syth,” Amric gritted. “If you want to reconsider your options here and now, you will find I can still muster some strength.”
The thief’s gaze flickered to each of them in turn before returning to Amric. Then Syth broke into a lopsided grin. “Let it not be said that I took unfair advantage of you in your weakened state, warrior. We will settle our differences when you have recovered.” He wagged one finger in the air, sheathed in the black metal of a gauntlet. “But do not think to put off our reckoning forever.”
Amric snorted and walked toward the damaged door.
“Do not turn your dead eye on me, you lumbering reptile,” Syth said, scowling at Valkarr. “You can take your place in line behind Amric. Just keep it fair, mind you. I will not fight you both at once. I have seen your kind fight recently, and though I am very skilled, I am no fool.”
Amric froze in mid-stride, and wheeled about to face the thief.
“What did you just say?” he asked.
Syth’s brow furrowed. “I am no coward, but fighting you both at once seems less than––”
“Not that,” Amric interrupted with an impatient wave. “You saw Sil’ath fighting recently?”
“Yes,” Syth answered, eyes darting between Amric and Valkarr as he took in their sudden interest. “I mentioned earlier that I was far from the only victim of Grelthus’s deception. Some weeks ago, the Wyrgen led a small group of lizard folk––like your friend here––into that huge Fount chamber. He brought them through the chamber containing my cage, just as he did with you, and fed them the same story about me being a dangerous criminal and he the compassionate diplomat for sparing my life. I think he meant to capture them, as he did me. But he caught me alone and unawares, and these five Sil’ath were all quite alert and bristling with weapons, just like the two of you. Regardless, the biggest of them seemed suspicious of his tale, and kept measuring me with his eyes.”
“That would be Prakseth,” Valkarr murmured. “He has a strong sense of justice, and will not be swayed until it is satisfied.”
“Go on, Syth,” Amric urged.
“Grelthus convinced them to follow him into the amphitheater, insisting that the answers they sought could be obtained by closer examination of the Essence Fount itself. He was lying, of course. That cur cannot move his mouth without lying, but he bolsters his deceit with enough facts to make his words seem sound. The big one gave me a surreptitious nod as they left, though I know not what he meant by it.”
“Prakseth meant to return for you,” Amric said softly. “He would not have left you here, if it was within his power. What transpired then?”
Syth shifted his feet before continuing. “I surmise that Grelthus intended to trap them in the amphitheater, to study the effects of exposure to the Essence Fount on another race. These plans went awry as well, however. Dozens of infected Wyrgens flooded the chamber and gave chase. Grelthus, slippery eel that he is, escaped with his life, leaving the reptile warriors battling the rabid Wyrgens.”
“The Sil’ath, did they perish?” Amric asked. His words, quietly spoken, carried a hard edge and promised death. Syth flinched and cleared his throat.
“I cannot say for certain,” he said. “I was trapped in my cage, and though I nearly burned myself on the bars striving for a better vantage, they became obscured from my view by the lip of the terrace below. They were giving a ferocious accounting of themselves, however, for the Wyrgen dead were heaped about them as they fought toward one of the chamber’s exits. I saw at least one of the warriors fall in battle, but the others fought against the surge to retrieve his body, and were dragging him as they retreated. Given the numbers they faced, I do not see how they could help but be overwhelmed.”
“Many foes of the Sil’ath have made the same assumption,” Valkarr grunted. “Much to their later regret.”
“Did you ever see their corpses?” Amric said.
Syth shook his head. “No, but Grelthus went looking for them, when everything had grown quiet once more. He returned furious, and when I broached the subject he flew into a rage. He roared at me that the Sil’ath were gone, and he threatened vivisection if I mentioned the episode again. He did not search for them further, so I believe he truly thought them gone. Whether they died or escaped from Stronghold, however, I know not.”
“The list of crimes for which Grelthus must answer grows longer and longer,” Amric said, exchanging a dark look with Valkarr.
He stalked to the battered door with sword in hand, and peered down the stairwell. As before, colors cavorted along the darkened walls in twisting, maddening arrangements, and a wave of vertigo blasted against him like a tangible thing. Amric kept it at bay this time with the seething heat of his rage, and he started down the narrow stairs. The roaring sound built in his head as he went, and by the time he reached the chamber below he feared his skull must split. As he and the others entered the lower room, they discovered a fourth difference between this viewing chamber and the previous one.
The glass wall was shot through with great cracks, shattered and gaping open over almost half its expanse while large shards of the material were splayed about the chamber. A web of cracks radiated outward on the stone floor and ceiling bordering each section where the clear sheet had failed, and the bottom steps of the staircase were gnawed and crumbled at their edges.
This explained the ravaged doors above, Amric thought. The blast that shattered the wall had channeled up the stairwell with enough force to wrench the thick metal portal from its very hinges as well as weaken even the outer door. It also explained the heightened effect of the Essence Fount upon him here, for they were directly exposed to the deadly geyser here through the breaches in the wall.
And that was not all they were exposed to here, he observed. A throng of hulking, furry forms was gathered outside the broken glass wall, their fiery eyes narrowed to hateful slits as they glared at the chamber’s occupants. Amric spat a sulfurous oath under his breath. Whether due to disastrous timing or because the unguarded conversation in the room above had carried far enough to draw them here, the corrupted Wyrgens had found them.
With glowing talons of all hues, the creatures gripped the yawning fissures in the glass wall and pulled themselves through, dropping into feral crouches and crawling forward. Amric and Valkarr both drew their second swords, and Syth flexed his sinister black gauntlets as his robes whipped about him. Bellimar withdrew into the shadows of the stairwell, folded within his cloak.
The shifting, shimmering light of the fountain reflected from bared steel in the ruined chamber as the beasts crept toward them.