chapter 11
Halthak crashed to his side on the stone floor, the echoes of his last scream chasing each other throughout the chamber. Sweat and blood mingled in rivulets that slid across his face as he lay there, panting. There was a crimson tinge to the froth caking his lips as well, and he tried to muster enough saliva to clear it by spitting, but his throat was too cracked and raw. His vision dimmed dangerously at the edges, and he felt for a long, precarious moment like he was falling down a darkened well and watching the hazy light of the opening recede above him.
He fought to remain conscious. It was too soon, he thought. He was not ready yet. He drew one ragged breath after another until his vision cleared. Then, clenching his teeth, he pushed himself on shaking arms to a sitting position once more as the rope bindings bit into his wrists, and he met the furious gaze of his tormentor.
Grelthus stood a few paces away, glaring down at him, deep chest heaving like a bellows.
“What is this idiocy, healer?” he stormed. “Why endure this pain merely to thwart me?”
Halthak said nothing, striving to compose his ravaged face into a tranquil mask. In truth, he was not certain he could have answered in any case, for his tongue was swollen and dry as parchment.
The Wyrgen spun away with a curse and slammed the blood-slicked weapon down on the table with such force that the other silvery implements there leapt jangling and spinning into the air. The device itself seemed to quiver even at rest, and the inset green orb pulsed hungrily, drawing blood along the blades to vanish into its glowing surface.
Halthak felt his stomach turn with revulsion and fear as he eyed the sinister device. Beyond even the considerable damage Grelthus could inflict with the thing, it seemed to magnify pain to a level he had never before experienced. He was not sure how much longer his will could hold out against that evil instrument.
Grelthus took several deep breaths, and then turned back toward him, outwardly calm once more.
“There is no need for you to suffer so,” he said in a voice laden with concern. “Your frail form cannot take so much damage, and you will surely die if you do not repair the wounds. I ask but to observe as you employ your magic, and there need be no further pain inflicted.”
Halthak knew it for a lie the instant he heard it. He decided it deserved company.
“My staff,” he croaked. “It serves as my focus, and I require it to direct my magic. Perhaps if it was retrieved––”
“Do not toy with me! There was no affinity for magic in that object,” Grelthus said, muzzle peeling back to reveal a mouthful of teeth like daggers. “Your friends are back in that room, trapped and alive only at my whim, and I will not return there until I decide what to do with them.”
The Wyrgen dropped to all fours and stalked forward until the stink of his hot breath washed over Halthak’s face. “It is within your power to save them, healer. Give me what I want, and I will release your friends and aye, even usher them from Stronghold. What say you?”
Halthak felt a stab of temptation, but he knew full well that it was but another of the creature’s empty promises. In any event, Amric and Valkarr would never agree to depart at the cost of him remaining captive here. So the Half-Ork grinned and said, through cracked lips, “What say I? I say we postpone this conversation until I can look through a fortress window and see their backsides departing the grounds. Not that I have any reason to doubt your word, you mangy mongrel.”
The wolf-like visage twisted with rage, and though Halthak never saw the blow coming, his head rocked back with its force. To his amazement, he managed to retain both consciousness and his upright position, even if he had not the faintest notion how he accomplished either. Woozy, he marveled at the boldness of his words, more than a little shocked they had tumbled from his own mouth. It seemed that time spent around the swordsman had bolstered his courage at the cost of his manners, and perhaps his self-preservation as well.
He glanced down at his torso to assess the damage that Grelthus had done to him thus far, for he was growing too cold and numb to know by feel alone. Some detached part of his mind nagged at him that this was a bad sign in itself, but he waved it away. His robes hung in tatters, as did the flesh beneath, soaked with the blood that was forming a languid pool beneath him. The Wyrgen was truthful in one respect: these wounds would prove fatal soon, if Halthak did not act.
He blinked the sweat from his eyes and regarded his captor, careful to keep his expression neutral.
“Do you still believe your friends will find and rescue you?” Grelthus was saying. He shoved one clawed fist into a tunic pocket and pulled forth the cube device he had used to unlock interior doors in the fortress. He thrust the device before Halthak’s weary gaze, pinched between his talons. “There is no way you could know this, Half-Ork, but this is not just any key. As Stronghold’s head scientist, I was one of a very few who commanded a set of master keys which can open any door in the fortress. And that is not all.”
The Wyrgen bounded to his feet and leapt across the chamber to stand by a smooth panel on the wall. He placed the cube-key against the panel and looked at Halthak with a mad light in his eyes.
“With the master keys, I can open the viewing walls as well, exposing viewing chambers like this one to the full glory of the Essence Fount. What’s more, I can open or close them all at once from any of these panels.”
Halthak stared in horror as it dawned upon him what the creature was suggesting. Grelthus barked a horrid, cackling laugh, and wrenched the key in a savage twist against the panel. With a dull boom followed by a shuddering grumble of thunder, the glass wall in the chamber began to rise. Air hissed beneath it, and Halthak felt an eerie tingling scamper across his skin, raising bumps across his already pebbled grey flesh.
“What are you doing?” he gasped. “It will kill us both!”
“It will not affect us so quickly,” Grelthus said, taking slow strides back toward the healer. “It took several days to poison my people, to transform them into savage, mindless monsters. But we have only a few minutes, for a different reason. You see, I know from experience that the sound of the machinery required to lift the walls draws my corrupted brethren to the Fount chamber from all corners of Stronghold. They will be gathering in great numbers soon, and there may even be some lurking in there already, so we haven’t much time.”
“W-why did you open it?” Halthak said.
“You would have me believe that the Fount’s proximity is somehow inhibiting your magic,” Grelthus sneered. “But I know that for a lie. The Essence Fount is magic at its most primal. It does not counteract other magic, but rather amplifies it, draws it out, sings to it with inexorable power. In its presence, you could perform feats with your inherent talents which have always before been beyond your reach. It is my theory that your magic will rise to the surface as you are bathed in the Fount’s direct radiance, despite your continued attempts to suppress it.”
Halthak swallowed. He felt nothing of the sort yet, but the Wyrgen’s cold conviction was unnerving. “And if this theory of yours proves false? Are we to be torn limb from limb by your people?”
Grelthus chuckled, a dark and ugly sound. “You should realize by now, Half-Ork, that my ingenuity knows no limits. If you do not employ your healing magic with all due haste, I shall lower our viewing wall here and raise all the others. Your trapped friends will lose the only protective barrier between them and the hundreds of slavering, enraged Wyrgens who will have gathered by then.”
The Wyrgen reached down with one long, powerful arm and lifted the cruel, many-bladed device once more from the table. Halthak choked back an involuntary babble of terror before it could escape his throat. He noted with a chill how its glowing green orb and gleaming metal were now clean and free of even a speck of blood; the thing had somehow drank up all that had coated its surface. Grelthus hefted the weapon before him, patting it as he would a cherished pet.
“The cost of your petty defiance will only continue to rise,” he said. “Will you be the instrument of demise for your friends, merely to stall the inevitable for a few minutes more?”
Halthak met his bleak stare for a long moment, then his shoulders sagged and he hung his head. He shifted his arms, still crossed behind his back, ignoring the protests of his aching shoulders and chafed wrists. He had no way of knowing how the exposure to the fiery geyser would affect what he was about to do, but he was out of time and out of options. With a mild effort of will, he brought his magic surging forth, invigorating his shaking body with welcome warmth and a brisk jolt of energy.
“Yes, yes!” Grelthus murmured, shuffling forward a pace. “That’s it, healer. Magnificent!”
Halthak ignored the Wyrgen, gathering what he needed and then more, continuing to draw upon it until his very veins were afire. His magic filled him to the point of bursting, roiling within like a storm-tossed sea, anticipating his bidding.
And there he held it, pent up behind his will, denying it release.
“Why do you hesitate, healer?” Grelthus demanded, his tone hardening into a harsh snarl.
The Half-Ork continued to slouch there with his head hung low and sweat dripping from his lank, wispy hair. He shook his head back and forth, over and over, repeating something in a mumbling whisper.
“Speak up, fool! What are you babbling about?” Grelthus said as he threw an uneasy glance past the open glass wall and into the vast amphitheater beyond. “We do not have much time, healer. No time for games, if you wish to save yourself, or your friends.”
Halthak’s head began a vigorous nodding, and his slumped shoulders shook with what might have been laughter. He continued to whisper as his magic flared within him, swirling but contained.
Grelthus spat an oath and dropped to all fours, stalking forward until his bared fangs were no more than a hand’s breadth from the face of his captive.
“What are you saying, damn you?” Grelthus snarled. He reached out and, with one huge fist, seized the healer’s unruly shock of hair and jerked his hanging head back into an upright position.
Halthak lunged forward like a striking snake, using all the strength remaining in his battered body. His arms, trailing frayed and parted ropes, whipped around to slap clawed hands to the sides of the Wyrgen’s shaggy head. His long nails dug into fur and flesh there, holding the startled creature fast.
“I said I have claws too, Grelthus,” Halthak hissed into his face, and he sent his magic slamming into the Wyrgen.
He had been anxious about this part, as he planned this desperate gambit. Grelthus’s own question about directing the flow of his magic had planted the suggestion, and a seed of wild hope had sprouted. Parting the ropes that bound him had been a laborious process, in part because it had been challenging at first to bring his claws to bear and in part because he had been forced to proceed at a snail’s pace to avoid arousing suspicion. Even as the mundane first step of his scheme proved achievable, however, doubts had assailed him about the next stage.
He had only ever used his talent to heal, to form a brief symbiotic connection with another living creature and draw away its hurt. What if his magic found the notion of inflicting damage as repugnant as he did, and would not obey him? What if he could not figure out how to direct it in this way before Grelthus overcame his moment of astonishment and tore away from his weakened grasp?
These misgivings and more vanished in the first instant of contact, burned to cinders by the flood of his released magic.
Just as countless times before, his talent leapt at his bidding, flowing and bridging into Grelthus. The Wyrgen stiffened as the unfamiliar sensation filled him in a sudden burst. Halthak’s many wounds began to disappear; bruises lightened and vanished, cuts sealed over like wet clay being molded by some invisible hand. He felt the ache of knitting bone and the itch of new skin nipped by the air. His labored breathing eased, and strength coursed through his limbs once more.
Even as all the wounds faded from Halthak, they appeared on Grelthus. The creature’s lips split and oozed blood. His eyes glassed over, seeming to sink into his skull. The massive frame gave a violent shudder at an appalling cracking noise. Several ripping sounds followed, like the tearing of wet cloth, and scarlet spattered to the flagstones. At once sickened and fascinated, the healer watched the entire transformation. A rumbling moan rattled in the Wyrgen’s throat, and he sagged in Halthak’s grasp.
Halthak released his hold and let the body crash to the floor, where the Wyrgen writhed in pain. Rolling to his feet, he swiftly moved to kneel at the creature’s side, where he dug at the thick fabric of the tunic in a frantic search for the cube-key device. Grelthus groaned and twisted, sweeping a claw at him, and he was forced to scramble clear. The Wyrgen had a stronger constitution, and the initial shock of his transferred injuries was wearing off all too quickly. Already Halthak could see the rolling eyes coming into focus and fixing upon him with a wild glare that promised retribution.
He eyed the many-bladed weapon on the table, its soft green glow seeming to pulse a dark invitation to him as his gaze fell upon it, and for a fleeting moment he considered trying to use it to stun or slay the Wyrgen. He was loath to slay, however, and he was no warrior besides. And Grelthus was recovering his wits, gathering his strength, his powerful back and shoulders bunching with muscle as he strove to push himself up from the floor. Halthak had witnessed the terrible speed and savagery of the beasts in combat, and he knew he had little chance if he came within reach of those killing claws.
The healer turned his attention to the raised glass wall and the cavernous amphitheater beyond. A broad set of stairs began at the lip of the viewing chamber, descending to a terrace level below. He had hoped to obtain the cube device in his escape, but there was nothing for it now. His best hope was to find an unlocked door in the amphitheater before the place filled with corrupted Wyrgens or the Fount struck him down, and then find a way to free his trapped friends. He knew it to be a slim hope at best, but at the moment he would take almost any shift in circumstance. If he could just find the others, they would know what to do next.
Halthak swallowed hard, hesitating a bare moment longer as he summoned his courage. Then he raced from the viewing chamber and down the stone steps, bathed in the brilliance of the surging Essence Fount.
Amric ducked under sweeping talons and came up in a whirl of steel. The corrupted Wyrgen’s lunge carried it a pace further before it faltered and crashed to the cold stone, its fiery amethyst eyes wide and unseeing. The swordsman wheeled around to help the others, but found it unnecessary. The last of the attackers was down.
Valkarr strode over a floor slick with crimson and littered with corpses to peer through the splintered glass wall. He gave Amric a quick shake of the head; no more approaching at the moment. Amric flicked the blood from his swords and sheathed them, looking next to Syth.
The thief was wending his way between heaps of wooly forms, and though he was breathing heavily, Amric judged it to be more from emotion than exertion. The man had not overstated his martial skills, for he was indeed a formidable fighter. Syth fought without any weapons other than those wicked black gauntlets encasing his hands. He moved like the storm wind itself, sudden, unpredictable and impossible to contain. He delivered blinding strikes with feet as well as hands, but the blows dealt with the gauntlets carried shattering force, and Amric suspected the objects were ensorcelled somehow. For all his evident prowess, however, Syth fought with a reckless frenzy that was altogether unsettling. Amric had taken pains not to expose his back to the man during the battle, in light of both the continued tension between them and the berserker rage that seized the man when they engaged the Wyrgens. Amric recalled the wild-eyed expression, and wondered if the fellow had even been able to distinguish friend from foe in the heat of the moment.
“You fought well, swordsman,” Syth called to him.
“And you as well, Syth,” Amric returned.
“I did not give you enough credit before. You are as good as your lizard friend there.”
Amric inclined his head and said, “A fine compliment, thank you.”
He swayed slightly and caught himself, hoping no one noticed. The nearness of the Essence Fount continued to plague him, and more than once a fleeting, ill-timed instant of weakness had almost been his undoing during the battle.
“Were I a lesser fighter, or capable of fear, I would be having second thoughts about facing you,” Syth continued in a distracted, conversational tone as he walked, his gaze directed downward. “But of course I am neither of these things. Perhaps we should have a bard present to chronicle our fight. What do you think?”
Amric shook his head in disbelief. Syth stopped, still looking down. A low moan issued from the figure sprawled at his feet. Dropping to one knee, he dealt the Wyrgen a thunderous blow with one gauntleted fist, dispatching the creature in an instant. His eyes were hard as granite as he stood and continued to prowl the room, checking the motionless forms of their assailants.
Amric turned and found Bellimar. The old man stood tall and straight amidst the carnage, like a slender, stately tree somehow untouched in the wake of a hurricane. His pale face was flushed and his eyes shone strangely above a tight smile, but he appeared unharmed. At one point during the battle, Amric was certain he had seen one of the beasts turn its attention to Bellimar, lurking in the corner; it had leapt toward him, powerful arms flung wide to engulf the old man. Amric had started toward him, but a multitude of Wyrgens swarmed at him just then, blocking his view and path to the old man. Even as a desperate shout to the others had gathered in his throat, however, he caught movement from the corner of his eye and found Bellimar on the other side of the room, away from the press of conflict once more. For an instant Amric had doubted his own sight, but as a Sil’ath warrior and warmaster he had developed an innate sense of what transpired in battle around him at all times. No, it was another of the old man’s mysterious tricks, then, and well timed at that.
Bellimar picked his way across the room, managing to avoid even a drop of blood on his grey robes.
“What next, warrior?” he asked.
“Onward to the next room,” Amric replied. “Grelthus, blast his conniving hide, must be hiding in one of these chambers.”
“We were fortunate this time,” Syth said. “Stronghold is vast, and it will take days to search just the chambers bordering the Essence Fount. We may not be so lucky in our next brush with the Wyrgens.”
“Leave if you wish,” Amric growled. “I will not abandon Halthak in this pit of demons, even if I have to turn over every stone in the place.”
“Perhaps we need not go to such lengths after all,” Valkarr said from his position at the ruined glass wall. He stood before a jagged aperture large enough to walk through, and he leveled one muscular arm to point at something in the amphitheater. Amric and the others joined him and peered in the direction he indicated.
Partway around the circular chamber, on the terraced balcony level just below them, was Halthak.
Made small by the distance, the healer was running for all he was worth. Amric slid his gaze along the path he had traversed and discovered the reason for his haste: the brutish figure of Grelthus surged along on all fours less than a hundred yards behind. The Wyrgen’s gait was weaving and unsteady for some reason, but he was nevertheless closing on his prey with frightening ease.
Movement on the immense amphitheater floor drew the swordsman’s eye still further down to reveal another new threat. Score upon score of corrupted Wyrgens were flooding into the chamber, their burning gazes upturned and questing. Even as he watched, their dark forms began to swarm up the stairs leading to the next level. As the stairways clogged with the heaving mass of bodies, the enraged creatures clambered over balustrades and over the backs of their own fellows in their frenzy. Halthak and Grelthus were many levels above the floor, but he judged it would take the swelling horde no more than a handful of minutes to reach that height, given the speed of the Wyrgens.
Amric plunged through the breach and into the Fount chamber, bounding down the steps that would take him to the terrace level below even as his swords flashed into his hands.