chapter 12
Halthak sprinted along the terrace, his desperate gaze fixed upon the next ramp of stairs. They were too far away yet to see if they offered any egress, but he had little choice except to try. The damnable Wyrgen had shaken off his imparted injuries with alarming speed, and now the panting snarls of pursuit grew louder with every step. Halthak heard the rasp of claws on stone almost at his heels, and he went cold as he realized he would never make it to those bleak steps before rending talons found his flesh and he was dragged down from behind.
His jaw clenched. He had been passive in the face of violence for all of his life, accepting it as inevitable, and seeking afterward with meek resolve to repair it if the fates allowed. Not this time. No, if death sought to claim him now in the guise of this evil creature, it would find him facing his attacker and fighting on the way down. He wished for the familiar comfort of his stout, gnarled staff, but he knew as well that even were it here now in his hands, it would do little to improve his chances against such a powerful killing machine.
He skidded to a halt and spun to meet Grelthus. Facing back the way he had come, he cursed at just how little distance he had covered since his escape. There was only a fleeting instant for self-reproach, however, before the furious mass of muscle and fur was upon him.
The Wyrgen launched itself at him, grasping claws outstretched. Surprise momentarily displaced rage on the wolf-like visage, however, as the Half-Ork fell backward and Grelthus hurtled through the empty space above him. Lying on his back, the healer lashed out with both feet to send the Wyrgen tumbling past. Halthak could never say afterward with any certainty whether the maneuver was tactical inspiration on his part, or if instead he had fallen backward in abject terror; if he lived to retell the moment, it would doubtless depend on his audience. It bought him precious seconds, however, even if it put his pursuer between him and the stairs he sought to reach.
He scrambled to his feet, hoping to rush past his stunned adversary, but the plan was short-lived. Shaking his great head in a rustle of thick, matted mane, Grelthus rose to all fours and glowered at Halthak once more.
“You are a troublesome creature, Half-Ork,” Grelthus said, his eyes eerily luminous in the shifting glow of the Essence Fount. “You have more fire in you than I thought.”
“Keep your praise,” Halthak called back. “Leave me be, and I will trouble you no more.”
The Wyrgen’s only reply was a rumbling laugh, and he began to pace forward in a low crouch, his deep chest almost brushing the floor. The healer edged back from him.
“I will die before I yield to you, Grelthus. You must realize that by now.”
Grelthus gave a rolling shrug of his immense shoulders as he crept forward. “It is no matter. There are things your body can teach me, even in death. And I must admit that the baser part of my nature hungers to see your blood at the moment, healer.”
Halthak felt a chill at the creature’s hard, indifferent tone. He wondered if all Wyrgens were so cruel, or if Grelthus had been driven to this state by solitude and what he had witnessed. He stepped to his right as the Wyrgen circled to his left. Maybe he could keep the creature talking, keep him distracted.
“I––” he began, and then Grelthus sprang at him.
He twisted back and to one side, but to no avail. The Wyrgen’s weight slammed into him, tearing him from his feet and knocking the wind from him. Halthak writhed and thrashed, but he was clasped in thick, furry arms corded with muscle, and he might as well have been a flailing child for all the effect his struggles had on his captor. Grelthus wrenched him around and threw a mighty forearm across his chest, pinning him tight and facing away, and the other hand rose to clutch at Halthak’s throat with curved talons.
“Cease your struggles, Half-Ork,” Grelthus hissed in his ear. “Or I will rip out your throat.”
Halthak wheezed a laugh, and tightened the grip of his own hand upon the beast’s forearm to apprise the Wyrgen of its presence there. His magic swelled within him. “Best hope for a clean kill, Grelthus, or it will be your own throat you open.”
The Wyrgen froze. Hot, rank breath washed over the side of the Half-Ork’s face as Grelthus panted and considered.
Halthak considered as well, his mind racing. How quickly could he bring his magic to bear, particularly if affected by so grievous an injury? Halthak himself did not know, but he meant to try. Talons tightened on Halthak’s throat, and beads of scarlet slid down his neck. Grelthus grunted as his own throat dimpled in response, and tiny rivulets of blood slicked into his fur, but he did not loosen his hold. Halthak felt the Wyrgen’s forearm tense, and he braced himself for the release that would come in one form or another.
Suddenly a new voice intruded. “Release him, dog.”
Halthak strained his eyes to the side to see Amric and Valkarr stalking toward them along the terrace, bared steel in their fists. Behind them trailed Bellimar, holding Halthak’s staff in one pale hand, and Syth, the strange prisoner from the cage of blue flame. The latter wore polished black gauntlets now, clenched at his sides. His clothing rippled about him in fitful swirls, and he made no attempt to mask the burning hatred in the stare he leveled at Grelthus.
“How is your ailment, swordsman?” Grelthus sneered. “You should flee Stronghold before it claims you.”
“We have unfinished matters between us first,” Amric said, still striding forward. “And they start with our friend you are holding there.”
“Then your arrival is well-timed, as I was about to give him a look at his own insides. Keep your distance!”
Amric shook his head. “I think not, Grelthus. I am close enough to cut you down like the murderous jackal that you are, if you are foolish enough to make your strike. The healer’s life is the only thing protecting yours at the moment.”
“Your kind cannot match my speed,” the Wyrgen snarled, but Halthak could feel the great form tensing. Those dark eyes darted back and forth as Amric and Valkarr spread out to either side of him.
“We are prepared this time,” Valkarr said, his scaly tail lashing behind him as he crouched. The Sil’ath warrior’s gaze raked over them, from the blood soaking both of their clothing and fur to the fresh spatters on the flagstones beneath them. “And you are wounded now. Unsteady.”
Grelthus bared his fangs at Valkarr in a rumbling growl.
“And,” said Amric, “even if you can escape ‘our kind’, are you so confident you can escape your own?”
The growl sputtered and died, and Halthak felt the talons twitch at his throat. “What do you mean?”
“Your beloved people are scaling their way up the chamber’s levels to reach you as we speak. I would wager we have no more than a minute before they arrive. We cannot spare the time to fence with words.”
Even as Amric uttered the words, however, several hunched shapes darted onto the terrace from the lower stairs, back in the direction from which he and the others had come. Eerily silent, the corrupted Wyrgens cast about in a flurry of motion, their muzzles upturned to taste the air. Their glowing gazes fell upon the group across the arc of the balcony wall, a scant two hundred yards away, and they broke into triumphant, strident howls. The call was answered from the depths below as a sudden cacophony of savage cries filled the vast chamber.
More shapes spilled from that distant stairwell and over the stone railing to drop into crouches on the flagstones. The creatures lunged forward into loping runs, bounding toward them.
“You were right, Grelthus,” Amric said, his lips pressed into a grim line. “Your kind are indeed fast.”
A frantic whine escaped from between the Wyrgen’s clenched teeth. Gazing upon the thundering horde that approached, Halthak had to agree; he felt like whimpering himself.
“Release the healer,” Amric said. “We run or die, now.”
“You said it yourself, human,” Grelthus said, his frantic gaze flicking between the approaching Wyrgens and the warriors surrounding him with drawn steel. “The Half-Ork’s life is the only thing that ensures mine. Else you will surely cut me down.”
“Release him, and we can settle matters between us once we escape your people,” Amric commanded. “You cannot outpace them while wounded and carrying a captive. Release him, or we all die here.”
Grelthus hurled Halthak from him with a roar of fear and rage, then wheeled and bolted back in the direction from which he had come. The healer stumbled and was caught by Syth.
“Quickly, follow Grelthus!” Halthak shouted. “The glass wall is raised in the room we left, and we can shut out the creatures if we get there before he shuts us out as well!”
They raced after the Wyrgen. Ahead, more hulking lupine shapes were pouring onto the terrace beyond the stairs that led to the viewing chamber they had to reach. Behind, the savage tide hurtled after them.
Amric grimaced as he reached the foot of the narrow stairway. Like its twin on the other side, it led from the terrace to a landing atop a square bulkhead, which then opened onto the much wider steps before the viewing chamber. He had hoped to defend these narrow access points until the wall could be lowered, but he could see now that he needed a new strategy. Several of the beasts crowded up the narrow stairs on the other side, while still more hurled themselves at the bulkhead with prodigious leaps, catching at the edge to haul themselves over the side. One of the corrupted Wyrgens caught Grelthus on the broad upper steps, and the pair fell to grappling, snarling and thrashing back and forth as they tore at each other with claw and tooth.
Amric’s mind raced. The lower stairs were already overrun, and could not be held in any event since it was obvious the creatures could scale the bulkhead with relative ease. The open wall of the viewing chamber was too wide by far to hold with their current numbers. The chamber might have a confined stairwell like the other, but the swift Wyrgens would drag them down before they could reach it, and he was loath to gamble their defense on the layout of a room he had not yet seen. The mindless creatures were gathering by the hundreds below in the amphitheater. Any mistake at this point and they would be trapped and crushed beneath the onrushing wave; likewise, any hesitation, and they would be just as quickly overwhelmed in the open.
“Clear the upper stairs!” he shouted to the others. “Valkarr and I will hold them as long as we can. You three help Grelthus, we need him to close the glass wall. When it starts to lower, we will dive under and join you. Now go!”
Amric leapt up to the landing. The Wyrgens there were slinking forward in anticipation, focused upon the combatants on the stairs above, and he was among them before they were aware of his presence. Two went down beneath his blades without a sound, and a third whirled toward him only to pitch forward with a cloven skull. Valkarr plunged into the midst of those crawling over the side of the bulkhead, his dual swords whistling in lethal arcs that sent woolly forms tumbling from the landing.
The Wyrgens recovered quickly, however, and surged after this new threat. Amric ducked under slicing talons, ripping his sword upward in response, and the attacker pitched backward in a crimson spray. His other sword swept out to send a grasping claw spinning away, and reversed in a lightning stroke to open the gaping creature’s throat. He hammered a kick into the thing’s barrel chest, propelling it backward to crash into its fellows on the narrow stairs. Amric followed, and in the chaos his darting swords silenced each Wyrgen that sought to struggle past the thrashing mass to reach him.
A shout from Valkarr brought him around. The Sil’ath warrior had momentarily cleared the edge of the landing, but the wave of Wyrgens following them had reached the foot of the lower steps. The swarm was building rapidly on all sides of the bulkhead as the creatures sought to ascend but were hindered by their own numbers.
Amric threw a glance upward to see Syth and Halthak cresting the stairs, dragging the stumbling Grelthus between them, leaving two dark forms sprawled in their wake. They passed under the raised glass wall and into the viewing chamber, disappearing from view. Bellimar followed, his grim expression inscrutable as he met Amric’s gaze for the briefest of moments.
The warriors backed up the steps, spreading apart to cover as much of the broad passage as they could. The approach was far too wide for two men to hold for long, especially against such numbers, but he hoped they could keep the beasts focused upon them so that none slipped by to pursue the others. If they could purchase a minute or two, it should be sufficient to trigger the mechanism lowering the wall and see it closed.
The heavens help them all if it took longer than that.
The Wyrgens came onward, streaming from the lower stairways and clawing their way over the edge of the bulwark. They filled the landing, the crest of a snarling wave that rose from a sea of pressing bodies on the terrace below. Slavering jaws grinned wide below fiery eyes, and curved talons in a myriad of brilliant hues flexed in anticipation. Howling in rage, they surged up the steps at the waiting warriors.
Amric and Valkarr gave ground in the initial rush, slipping like phantoms away from snapping fangs and raking claws. Steel flickered in the blaze of the Essence Fount, and the charge faltered as the eager howls mixed with shrieks of pain and anger. The front rank of Wyrgens slumped to the stone, and as the next ranks made to hurdle over their fallen fellows, the warriors plunged forward as one to press the attack.
Amric fought like a man possessed, teeth bared in fury, cutting a scarlet swath through his foes. Hulking forms fell back from him on all sides, but more clambered over the heaped corpses to hurl themselves at him. Valkarr was beside him, a whirlwind of cutting steel, and they drove like a fearsome wedge into the horde.
Then Amric’s fear came to pass. Even as the bulk of the host hurled itself into the teeth of their onslaught, some of the creatures began to slip around them on the outside edge of the stairway. The warriors were forced to spread out more to prevent the mass from flowing around and surrounding them, or racing past to the viewing chamber. As they did so, however, several of the Wyrgens thrust themselves between them, isolating and encircling them for a perilous moment. They leapt back up the stairs, fending off the press of bodies as the charge threatened to overwhelm them.
Amric cursed. The two of them could not hold these stairs any longer, and the glass wall had still not begun to close.
A sudden gale of wind erupted at his side. Claws rasped on stone as the attackers in the front line staggered back, and the creatures threw up hairy arms to shield their squinting eyes as the wind ripped at them. Syth slid to a halt beside Amric, and flashed him a fierce grin.
“What is this, thief?” Amric said. “I had the impression that you were not much for a losing cause.”
“I am not,” Syth admitted. “But you are out here making valor look so good that my common sense has been overwhelmed for a time. Besides, I would not see this mangy pack of dogs cheat the storytellers of the epic fight that you and I will yet have.”
With a scream of fury, Syth dove forward into the mass. One metallic black fist slammed into a furry torso with a resounding crack, while another swung in an open-handed blade to shatter an outstretched arm. Dropping into a low spin, he swept the legs from under several Wyrgens and exploded upward into a tremendous uppercut that catapulted one of the creatures into the air to land atop his fellows. Syth barked out short bursts of maniacal laughter as he moved among the creatures like a devastating whirlwind. Taken aback by the sheer ferocity of his attack, the Wyrgens shrank from him for a moment, screaming in frustration. Amric and Valkarr took advantage of the confusion to press the attack, and the three warriors spread out to cover the stairs.
For a long moment, the scene stood thus, like a persistent wave crashing against the stubborn rocks of shore. The charge was repelled, and neither side gave ground. But the enraged Wyrgens kept coming, sometimes hurling the lifeless bodies of their own kind from the stairs in their eagerness to reach the intruders. Blood flew from sword and gauntlet, but glowing talons inevitably found their marks as well, tearing through cloth and armor to sear the flesh beneath with foul energies. The creatures pressed forward with renewed fervor, sensing that their foe teetered on the edge of being overwhelmed. The first strike that did more than graze the agile warriors would end the stalemate.
It happened in an instant.
Bolstered by his battle fury, Amric had managed to put aside the strange illness caused by the Essence Fount through sheer force of will, and he anchored the center of their defensive line behind an impassable wall of steel. Over the heaving sea of Wyrgens, he saw the Fount pulse and swell, its light flaring to a sudden crescendo of brilliance like some impossibly massive stroke of lightning within the amphitheater. Amric staggered, his head swimming and the strength draining from his limbs, and a moment’s weakness was all it took.
Grasping claws pulled at his mail shirt, throwing him off balance, and huge hairy fists slammed into him, knocking the breath from him. Jaws gaped at him from a wolfish visage, and he slapped away a clutching arm and lashed out with a return stroke that drew a yelping scream. His vision dimmed and he stumbled back, making weak cuts at the forest of claws that raked at him. Then he fell back on the cold stone steps, the wave crashed over him, and all went black.
Halthak was helping to lift Grelthus to his feet when he saw Amric fall beneath the corrupted Wyrgens on the stairs. He froze in horror, his breath caught in his throat. Bellimar released Grelthus’s other arm and took a rapid step toward the stairway.
With an incoherent cry, Valkarr leapt to his fallen friend’s defense. Heedless of his own safety, he burst among them like a demon, cleaving through the creatures with a berserk ferocity. A snarling, grizzled head tumbled down the stairs, freed of its body. Another hulking form staggered and fell back, cloven nearly in twain. Syth joined him an instant later in a blast of biting wind, hammering powerful blows into spine and skull until the beasts over Amric retreated or were still. Shoulder to shoulder they fought, driving back the Wyrgens for precious seconds.
“Healer!” Valkarr bellowed. “Pull him free!”
Halthak turned to Grelthus, who was now recuperated enough to stand. “Be ready with that wall!” he ordered as he shoved the Wyrgen toward the panel nestled on the side wall of stone.
Darting out of the chamber and onto the broad stairway, he knelt by Amric. The warrior was unconscious and bleeding from countless minor wounds, but was still breathing. He slid his hands under Amric’s arms and heaved, dragging him from beneath the panting combatants. Wicked talons reached for him from amid the press, and Halthak flinched away without relinquishing his grip. They never landed, however, and when the healer looked again the severed arm was rolling on the flagstones nearby, still twitching. With a surge of effort, the Half-Ork pulled the man free and started up the stairs.
Behind him, the vibrating rumble of ponderous machinery began, and the enormous glass wall began its slow descent.
Too early, Halthak thought as panic rose like ice in his chest. After all it had taken to revive the stricken Wyrgen, he had now triggered the wall at the worst possible time. He threw a glance over his shoulder to see Grelthus leaning against the side wall, watching the battle on the stairs with an unreadable expression. Bellimar was behind the lowering portal, standing poised and rigid like he meant to throw himself into the fray. The Half-Ork looked up to the clear sheet of diamond-hard material, several feet thick, rumbling its way downward to the floor. His gut twisted as he realized he was not going to make it. The wall would come down before he could reach the safety of the chamber, burdened as he was, and it would either seal them without or crush them under its weight.
“Hold the wall!” he cried.
Grelthus tore his eyes from the battle to meet the healer’s gaze.
A slow, malevolent smile spread across the savage countenance, and the wall continued to descend.
Halthak shouted a warning to Syth and Valkarr, but the warriors were locked in battle and could not turn away to help or even to escape themselves. He gritted his teeth and heaved with all his might, dragging the limp form of the swordsman up the steps. Certain death awaited them out here. He had no choice but to beat the descending wall. He resolved not to look back again, but instead to pull for all he was worth, and he and Amric would either live or die together. He reached the top of the stairs and lunged backward, grunting with the effort. His head struck the edge of the glass wall. He ducked under it and tightened his fists in Amric’s chain shirt, sinking his claws into the link to retain his grip. He wrenched back, pulling desperately at the warrior, sick with the knowledge that he had not been fast enough, but unwilling to abandon their only chance.
With a squealing groan of protest, the wall’s descent came to a sudden stop.
Halthak’s mouth fell open in disbelief, and he turned wide eyes upward. Bellimar stood above him, eyes glowing red like searing pinpoints of flame, pale hands straining under the edge of the wall. The old man’s back was bowed and his frame shook with the effort, but somehow, impossibly, he was holding up the titanic weight of the wall.
“This may look easy, healer,” Bellimar gasped through clenched teeth. “But I pray you will hurry, nonetheless.”
Halthak scrambled into the chamber, dragging his charge behind him. Amric groaned and began to stir. The Half-Ork looked under the wall to where Valkarr and Syth were still locked in combat with the Wyrgens, and he shouted to them, beckoning them on with repeated, frantic gestures.
He saw Valkarr risk a look back and then shout to Syth, “I will turn them back one last time while you run for the wall!”
“I’ll not leave you to die in my stead,” Syth snarled back, his gauntleted fist smashing out with a cracking report to cave in a grizzled skull.
“There is no time to debate it!” the Sil’ath returned. “Go now, and I will be on your heels.”
The warriors locked gazes for a split second, and Halthak witnessed some grim understanding pass between them. Then Valkarr plunged forward in a blinding whirlwind of steel, uttering a battle roar. The horde swayed back from the savagery of his assault.
Syth lashed out to send another Wyrgen reeling, and then hesitated as he watched the swarm close around the frenzied Sil’ath. Then he wheeled and bolted up the stairs. He dove under the massive wall in a rush of air, rolling smoothly to his feet inside the chamber.
The glass wall made a dull grinding sound and dropped another half a foot before Bellimar caught it with a grunt. A violent trembling rocked his slender frame, but the wall hung suspended once more. Syth and Halthak turned their anxious stares to the fight raging below on the stairs.
Valkarr cut his way free in a bloody swath, and for a fleeting instant, he was clear. He leapt up the stairs, grim resolve written in every hard line of his face. A claw raked at his leg, leaving the flesh ragged and blackened in its wake, and he swept away the offending appendage with a terse stroke. A brutish Wyrgen bounded through the air to crash into his back, and he twisted, spinning into a sweeping cut that laid the creature open even as it was thrown from him. Talons caught at his leather baldric, slinging him to the side, and he crossed his arms to thrust behind him, impaling his assailant with both blades.
Halthak’s mouth fell open, his breath caught in his throat. The effort was incredible, stunning in its display of swordsmanship and determination, but the speed and power and endless numbers of the corrupted Wyrgens made the conclusion inevitable. More and more claws snaked through to catch at the fleeing Sil’ath, slowing him, staggering him, tearing into his scaly flesh. He went to one knee, still hammering lethal blows all about him, and finally pitched forward beneath the weight as the swarm enveloped him.
Within the chamber, Halthak watched aghast as Valkarr disappeared from sight beneath a surging mass of rending claws and fangs. Bellimar sagged forward, groaning in agony as his grip failed at last.
The massive wall slammed to the ground with a shuddering boom of thunder.
Amric blinked, trying to clear the haze from his vision. Everything swam before his eyes, blurred and washed out, as if he viewed the world through a swirling white mist. Several figures stood above him, their outlines muddled and indistinct, but he could see they were all facing away from him.
He clenched his teeth in pain. His insides burned as if afire, and some dim part of him wondered if the Fount had corrupted him at last. Or perhaps the vicious Wyrgens had torn into him, and he was simply too obstinate to die.
His hands remembered sword hilts, and he groped for them, but his fingers met only cold stone. Something unfamiliar clawed at his clouded awareness; he felt a rush of alien sensations thrust upon him, as if the conflicting emotions of some other being were somehow bursting inside him. It was mercurial, seeming at once insistent, fearful, eager, ashamed and restrained. It raged with fury and clamored for his attention, and then shrank from his scrutiny as he tried to focus upon it.
He pushed himself up to one elbow and concentrated on the strident forms around him. They wavered into focus. Halthak, white-faced and rigid, pressed against the glass wall. Bellimar, slouching exhausted against the wall, one pale hand spread against its clear surface as if trying to touch someone or something on the other side. Syth, shouting and hammering his fist against the wall as his robes whipped violently about his taut frame. Amric squinted past them and through the glass wall, searching for the cause of their distress.
He saw Valkarr, beyond the glass wall, thrashing on the ground beneath the mass of savage Wyrgens. He saw gleaming fangs flecked with crimson froth, and smoldering claws stained with blood as they raked repeatedly at the Sil’ath’s body. He saw the mindless fiends ravaging the body of his dying friend, and for Amric, in that instant, everything else ceased to exist.
A scream of anguish was torn from his throat, and all the fire churning inside him rose with it. The thing within him came gibbering to the fore, flaring with power that scorched through his veins and threatened to burn him to ash. Amric sensed a kindred rage in the thing to match his own, and a wild desire to help. Beyond reason, he embraced it, and felt its fierce exultation even as he was filled with the rush of power. Then everything dissolved before his eyes in a blaze of white fire.
Bellimar’s hand slid down the glass wall and fell to his lap. He had revealed himself and worse, broken the strictures imposed upon him. He would pay dearly for it, he knew. Already the need worked at the edges of his will, and still it had not been enough. Perhaps if he had acted sooner, he thought; but nay, there were limits he could no longer ignore, no matter how grave the circumstances.
A scream from Amric brought him sharply about. There was an unnatural quality in the timber of the swordsman’s voice that sent a chill coursing through him, and he had not thought anything in this world could still have that effect on him. The shout parted the air with a razor edge, beginning as a cry of grief and loss and becoming something else entirely, infused with rage and thrumming with intensity.
Amric rose to his feet, blazing with power. His eyes radiated dazzling white fire like miniature suns, and that terrible gaze was fixed upon the grisly scene outside the chamber. He stretched out one hand toward the glass wall with fingers spread wide, and Bellimar’s hair lifted from his head as a strange pressure built there. Sudden instinct warned him to dive aside, and he shouted a warning to the others. Syth grabbed the gaping Halthak and yanked him out of the way.
Seeming unaware of their presence, Amric strode forward. He clenched his hand into a fist, and the wall exploded outward with an ear-splitting report. Massive shards tore ragged swaths through the Wyrgens crowded without, sweeping scores from the terrace. Deafened and taken aback for a moment, the creatures crouched frozen as he approached. Their baleful, unblinking stares were fixed upon him, and their glowing eyes against the sea of hulking forms were like a constellation against a velvet midnight sky. Then they surged forward as one with a throaty roar, hurling themselves at their bold prey.
Amric never broke stride. Crossing his arms before him, he then whipped them apart in a vicious cutting motion, as if he held his swords in both hands and was cleaving into a foe.
The ripple of power tore at Bellimar’s robes, even behind the swordsman as he was, but it was nothing compared to the devastation before him. Scything forces swept through the Wyrgens, peeling them from the stairs and hurling them back by the hundreds. Twisting and clawing madly for purchase, the Wyrgens were scattered like dry leaves over the edge of the terrace, where the creatures tumbled through the empty air toward the amphitheater floor far below.
In the blink of an eye, the broad steps before the viewing chamber were clear but for the broken figure of Valkarr, lying in a spreading pool of his own blood, untouched by the reaping forces that had cut through the Wyrgens.
Amric knelt at Valkarr’s side, gathered him into his arms, and stood. Those flaming eyes swung back to the viewing chamber.
“He still clings to life,” he said, his voice cracking with grief and yet carrying an eerie resonance at the same time. “Help him,” he pleaded.
Behind him, in the cavernous amphitheater, one of the great columns burst with a crack of thunder, spewing granite fragments in every direction. Halthak swallowed, his gaze flitting between Amric and the burden he carried.
“I––I do not know if I can heal injuries so severe,” he stammered. “I do not even know how he still draws breath. He––or he and I both––may not be strong enough to withstand the process.”
Amric climbed the steps, carrying Valkarr. He strode through the shattered portal and into the chamber. Bellimar’s eyes narrowed. A faint nimbus of light surrounded both of them. Amric halted before the healer, and Halthak shrank before his fiery scrutiny, but the swordsman’s next words were solemn and surprisingly gentle.
“All I ask is that you try, Halthak,” he said. “I think that you will find the strength here, in this place.” He laid Valkarr on the floor at the Half-Ork’s feet.
“Come, Halthak,” Bellimar urged. “I have some medical knowledge, and I will assist you however I can. We have very little time, if we are to perform a miracle.”
As the two bent over the ravaged form of the Sil’ath, the forgotten Grelthus found his voice from the corner of the viewing chamber.
“What have you done?” he moaned, shuffling out onto the steps and casting his stricken gaze all about. “What have you done to my people?”
He whirled toward Amric, hunching over and spreading his claws wide. Hatred and madness twisted his features as he spat his words through bared fangs. “You have slain them all, human!”
“Not all, Grelthus,” Amric said. “Not yet.”
The incensed Wyrgen dropped forward into a crouch, bristling and bunching to leap.
“Your traitorous ways have cost the lives of many, Grelthus,” Amric continued, his voice a ringing pronouncement of doom. “The time has come for you to join your people.”
The Wyrgen sprang at him, launching his powerful form through the air with jaws frothing and curved talons outstretched. Amric lashed out with one hand, palm forward. The brutish creature was struck in midair by some invisible force and swatted aside like an insect. Spinning and twisting, Grelthus was hurled across the terrace edge and out of sight, his howl of rage dwindling away.
The swordsman strode over to where the glass wall had been. He bowed his head and spread his arms. As if in response, the Essence Fount leapt skyward, surging and swelling until it nearly filled the amphitheater. It thrashed violently, spinning like a cyclone of flame and sending tendrils of blazing energy curling about the colossal stone columns in the vast circular chamber.
One by one, the pillars shattered and exploded, crumbling into ruin. As the last of them fell, Stronghold itself shook in protest, quivering in the throes of its agony. With a rumbling roar, the great domed ceiling of the chamber split and fell. Ton after ton of rock poured into the chamber. The Fount was obscured as the avalanche continued and the very heart of Stronghold collapsed in on itself.
Bellimar, still kneeling over Valkarr, gaped in awe. On impulse he brought up his Sight and tried to look upon Amric’s aura. His vision filled with intense, flaring white light, and he fell back with a startled cry as his eyes were nearly seared from his head. He dropped his Sight, flinging up one arm to shield his tightly shut eyes.
Long seconds later, when he could see once more, the deluge of rock had ceased. The Essence Fount was lost to sight, and the vast chamber housing the experiment that was the demise of the Wyrgens was filled with stone. A rippling cloud of grit and dust carpeted the viewing chamber, causing everyone to cough, and fragments of stone skittered and danced upon the partially exposed stairway outside as the mighty fortress still trembled.
Syth stood over the men attending to Valkarr, shifting from one foot to the other as his wide-eyed gaze bounced from Amric to the now solid core of Stronghold.
“Remember all that talk of wanting to fight you, swordsman?” he said fervently. “Forget every last word of it.”