chapter 8
Halthak sat wrapped in his cloak in the pre-dawn hour, knees drawn up before him and whiskered chin resting upon folded arms. He gazed out from the deep, narrow recess of the cleft and onto a lightening sky, like watching through a door ajar as the darkness yielded in grudging steps to the coming day.
He had dozed several times, he knew, for the night had flown by in passages, and he was not nearly as fatigued as he should have been after concluding the events of yesterday by standing watch all night. The fates had been kind for a turn, and nothing had stumbled across their place of concealment. The only moment of concern had come late in the evening, when he heard noises from down the hill where their battle with the bloodbeasts had taken place. He had listened, striving not to draw breath, as a ponderous tread grew louder, accompanied by snuffling noises that sounded like a great bellows at work. There followed a muffled crunching of bones for a time, and then the lumbering creature departed. Halthak, who had been debating on waking the exhausted warriors, sat back at last with a sigh of relief to resume his watch.
He studied Amric and Valkarr, watched their chests rise and fall in the deep, regular rhythm of slumber. Healing Valkarr had been tiring, given the extent of his wounds, but predictable. With Amric, he had proceeded at a very gradual pace to indicate peaceful intent, just as he would if trying to approach a dangerous wild animal. This tactic had proven successful, for he did not this time encounter the strange, impenetrable barrier that had stopped him short before. Even as he sent his healing magic into the warrior with utmost patience, however, he had the peculiar sensation of being closely monitored, of that same foreign presence hovering all about his efforts and yet remaining just beyond contact. It was perplexing, and while he was relieved to have found a method by which he could heal the swordsman, he was also concerned that the next time might call for more urgency, and he might face that mysterious resistance again.
He pushed it from his mind, as he had already a dozen times over the night. There was nothing for it but to try, when the time came.
He looked skyward, wishing the cleft opened to the east so that he could witness the dawn’s full glory as it arrived, when something nagged at the edge of his vision. His eyes fell to the side, and he froze. Standing less than a dozen feet away, so still as to seem a natural part of the crevice’s many shadows, was a tall, slender figure folded in a cloak. Halthak clawed for the staff beside him and sprang to his feet as a strangled yelp lodged in his throat.
A throaty chuckle came from the figure, followed by a smooth, familiar voice. “Do you mean to crease my skull for disappearing last night, healer?”
“Bellimar?” Halthak gasped. “By the heavens, man, I think you just shaved years from my life!”
“My apologies for startling you so.” Bellimar glided forward, and Halthak glared at him, finding the contrition in the old man’s tone did not at all match the twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
“Where have you been all night?” the Half-Ork asked.
“An excellent question,” said a low, dangerous voice. Halthak wheeled to see Amric and Valkarr having risen into crouches, silent as ghosts. They had not yet drawn their blades.
Amric spoke again. “I look forward to your answer, Bellimar.”
Bellimar met their angry stares with his enigmatic half-smile, and in a slow, deliberate motion, he sat on a nearby rock. The warriors tracked his every movement, but did not ease their postures. Halthak looked between them and winced at the crackling tension.
“Did you think I had abandoned you?” Bellimar inquired.
“It had crossed my mind,” Amric said.
“I understand how it appeared,” Bellimar said. “I assure you, however, that I did not depart until the conflict was decided.”
“Well and good if true, but why did you depart at all?”
“The battle was over and Halthak was offering to see to your wounds,” Bellimar said in a soothing tone. “I could not help much in that endeavor, so I set about making myself useful in a different way. I sought a more secure site for us to camp the night, higher in the crag and away from subsequent predators. I departed in haste, hoping to find such a site quickly, before the sounds of the battle drew anything else to us.”
“And yet you return instead at the break of dawn, while we spent the night on the ground.”
Bellimar nodded, seeming oblivious to the barbed nature of Amric’s comments. “Unfortunately, every location I found involved strenuous climbing, which I doubted you and Valkarr could manage in your weakened condition, and which would have meant abandoning the mounts. So instead I assumed a perch well above you, and kept watch from this higher vantage point. I had an unobstructed view of the surrounding area and any approach to this crevice. I regret that I could not shout down to inform you of my whereabouts, for fear of attracting unwanted attention, but I would of course have done so to warn of any approaching threats.”
“It all sounds reasonable, if a bit too carefully crafted,” Amric said. “And it does not explain why you could not share a word of your plan with Halthak before you left, or how you were able to descend undetected into our midst just now. I have been lying awake for more than an hour, listening to the healer’s intermittent snoring, and I was only aware of your presence moments before Halthak discovered you.”
Halthak’s face burned at Amric’s words. He had not realized the man was awake, had never seen him move nor heard his breathing change. Bellimar opened his mouth, but Amric held up a hand to forestall the reply.
“Nay,” he said. “I do not doubt that you can supply a ready explanation. Keep your secrets, old man. I already know there is more to you than meets the eye. I respect and even like you, Bellimar, and your aid has been invaluable thus far, but I want you to understand two things.”
The swordsman stepped close, pinning Bellimar with a stare. “First, if I judge for a moment that you have goals running contrary to our own, I will not hesitate to take necessary measures. Is that understood?”
The old man tilted his head, searching the warrior’s expression for a long moment before giving a grave nod. “Understood. And the second?”
“In the future,” the warrior said, his words ringing like cold iron, “if you feel the need to depart in the midst of a crisis without a word to anyone, stay gone.”
Bellimar inclined his head again. “Understood on that point as well.”
“And you, healer,” Amric said, rounding with a scowl on Halthak, who flinched back from him. “You misled me, and broke our agreement by lulling me to sleep.”
The Half-Ork, emboldened by Amric’s words being more scolding than angry, folded his arms across his chest and thrust out his lower jaw as he faced the other man.
“You needed the rest to recuperate from your injuries,” he said in what he hoped was a tone that brooked no argument. “I said I would only do as much as I thought you required, and I did just that. It is the physician’s prerogative to ignore the demands of a delirious patient.”
Amric glowered at him for a few more moments, before the hint of a grin cracked through. “So it is, healer, so it is. And we would be in dire straits indeed without your expert ministrations.” His voice regained its stern edge. “Still, you put us all at risk, and such dishonesty does not fit you well. If we are so unfortunate as to repeat those circumstances, sway me with words rather than deception. Promise me that?”
Halthak exhaled in relief, and nodded. “I would have woken you both had anything threatened.”
“Or we you,” Amric said with a snort that sounded suspiciously like a mock snore, but a private wink took the sting from his words. Valkarr gave a soft, sibilant laugh and turned away, striding to the entrance of the cleft. He stood silhouetted there, surveying the hillside.
Still seated upon his rock, Bellimar said, “There is something else I must mention.”
The old man’s half-smile returned as they all turned to face him, expectant.
“In my exploration of the heights above us last night,” he said. “I discovered something you should see for yourself.”
By the time he reached the safety of the broad stone ledge, Halthak was fighting for breath. Strong hands pulled him over the edge and to his feet, and he peered down into the yawning darkness of the cleft below. He battled a moment of vertigo as he stood with his heels on the precipice; it had not looked so high when he stood at the bottom, staring up the rock face with skepticism as he sought the handholds the others assured him were plentiful. Amric and Valkarr had scampered up before him with infuriating speed and ease, and it was some combination of curiosity, stubbornness, and unease at being left behind with Bellimar that had driven him to follow.
Bellimar stood far below, a distant bit of shadow wrapped in his cloak. He had chosen to remain on the ground, expressing doubt as to whether there was strength enough left in his aging limbs to ascend again by the route he had so recently descended. He claimed to have reached this spot by a less strenuous albeit more circuitous route during the night. Contemplating the return descent now, Halthak felt his chest tighten. He berated himself for following the warriors up here merely to witness Bellimar’s reported discovery, but then he raised his face to the sunrise and changed his mind.
The sun’s golden light caressed and warmed his face, and he shielded his eyes against its glare to look out upon a living sea of jade. Between the altitude gained from the large hill upon which the crag rested, and the further height of the ledge above the crest of that hill, they were looking out at a level with the tops of the trees. The thick, green canopy spread away from the crag on three sides past the limits of his vision, its surface rippling before the will of the wind. The healer found the ancient forest as beautiful from above as it was treacherous beneath. Here at least there was life, as flocks of birds wheeled and circled high overhead. Halthak felt a sudden, fierce longing to be as free of the evils below as were those birds. He wondered at how magnificent the view must be at the peak of the crag rather than merely partway up, but he could see no way to ascend further from their ledge.
The ledge wrapped around the face of the bluff, and Amric and Valkarr stood at its southernmost edge. They were conversing and pointing at something in the distance, and as Halthak moved toward them he saw the focus of their attention.
On the southern side of the crag, separated from them by a slender swath of trees, the rocky ground gave way to foothills and then rose into a sheer cliff that meandered east like a great stone curtain. Etched into its side was a shelf that ran ribbon-like for many miles above the forest. On its western end, it coiled back upon itself several times before it disappeared into the woodlands behind the crag. Halthak strained to trace its progress to the east, though he lost it eventually to distance and the glare of the rising sun. It seemed to end at or behind a solitary mountain, thrust away from its siblings huddled in the range behind it to reign alone and majestic above the forest. As he continued to stare, however, it dawned upon him that the mountain had too many sharp, angular edges to be the careless artistry of nature, and the myriad shadows upon its face were too uniform as well. Awe crept over him as he realized he was looking upon a mighty fortress, carved from the very top of the mountain. Halthak tried and failed to grasp the enormity of effort required to construct a single structure so massive. It could only be Stronghold, home of the reclusive Wyrgens, and their destination.
Halthak hastened forward to hear the discussion.
“It is not marked on Morland’s maps,” Amric was saying. “But the maps focus on trade and mining supply routes, and that ridge path looks unsuitable for wagons or large parties, so that could be why. I would wager that four riders on horseback can navigate it in a single column, however, with caution.”
“Do you see the bridge Bellimar mentioned?” Valkarr asked.
Halthak peered into the fading distance, and saw no such thing.
“I think so,” Amric said, after a moment. “It is difficult to tell for certain at this distance, but I believe I see something connecting the path and the fortress. Damn, but the old man has eyesight a hawk would envy to have seen that far in the poor light.”
The swordsman’s flat tone seemed at odds with his admiring words, and Halthak puzzled over it before Amric’s meaning sank in. Bellimar had startled them on the ground before the morning sun had crested the horizon. What the keen eyes of the warriors could barely discern now in dawn’s first light, Bellimar had somehow seen last night in near darkness. Halthak felt a growing chill as he considered the implications.
”If we are mistaken about reaching the fortress from the path, we could lose a day or more to backtracking,” Valkarr said.
Amric grunted. “Worth the risk. I find I am open to alternatives to the forest road just now.”
“We will be exposed to view,” Valkarr noted. “But we will see far as well, and attackers can only come at us one or two at a time on the narrow trail. A better route, if it connects.”
“Then let us hope this newfound path is as quiet as it appears,” Amric said. “And that Bellimar has indeed found us a way to bypass the last stretch of this infernal forest.”
It was late afternoon when the riders reached the end of the high pathway along the cliff wall. At its terminus, the path twisted away from the sheer face and gave way to a broad, tree-studded clearing atop a bluff that jutted over the valley. From its edge, a slender bridge leapt across the intervening chasm in a shallow, graceful arc to the foot of the mountain fortress, Stronghold.
Amric guided his bay gelding onto the plateau, and he felt some of the tension leave the horse’s knotted muscles in a brief, shuddering sigh. The swordsman gave the animal’s neck a sympathetic pat. After spending all day navigating the narrow, wind-clawed trail over a precipitous drop, this flat and spacious projection of stone seemed secure indeed. He waited as the others drew rein beside him, relief evident on their faces as well, and together they surveyed the bridge.
“What do you make of it?” Amric asked at last.
“It should not stand,” Valkarr replied at once.
Amric was forced to agree. He had been eyeing the structure since it hove into clear view around the curve of the cliff wall. Though the Sil’ath were wondrous crafters on a smaller scale, they seldom built large, elaborate structures. Perhaps it was evidence that their nomadic impulse yet remained. It was just as rare for them to employ siege tactics such as sapping or demolition, but their military training still encompassed something of basic engineering and materials. Furthermore, Amric had taken it upon himself to study at the university in Lyden and bring the additional knowledge back to his people to augment their skills.
And everything he had learned, in direct contradiction to what he was seeing, insisted that the bridge before them simply could not be.
He dismounted and let the reins drop, then approached the edge of the precipice where the bridge began. The structure was wide enough for two horses abreast and composed entirely of some strange alloy, but he could find no seams or bolts demarcating the component pieces. Instead, it appeared to be forged of one unimaginably long, continuous piece of metal. Where the span met the stone at his feet, the two disparate materials merged, and the one flowed into the other without interruption. Ribs of metal looped in high arcs over the walking surface, but there were none of the heavy supports above or below that he expected of a bridge spanning many hundreds of yards. Amric peered down into the gorge, at the dark green treetops far below shot through with bleached veins of rock. If this contraption gave way beneath them, their quest would come to an abrupt and ignominious end down there.
“The Wyrgens are reputed to be unparalleled craftsmen, producers of countless marvels,” Bellimar reminded him. “If any could produce a bridge that defies gravity, it is they.”
Amric gave a noncommittal grunt. It was also said that the masters of Stronghold guarded their privacy with ferocious zeal, and were known to make examples of unwelcome visitors. This precarious path through the air could collapse by fault of construction or by design to repel invaders, and either way the outcome for Amric and his companions would be the same. Still, the bridge led to an opening in the chiseled wall on the other side, and he did not relish the thought of turning back now to find another approach.
There was no visible activity on the far side, but this was somewhat expected since nothing had been heard from the Wyrgens for many months.
Bellimar had done much on the journey from Keldrin’s Landing to fill the gaps left in common knowledge regarding the reclusive Wyrgens of Stronghold. Like their base relatives, the savage Wyrgs of the lowlands, the Wyrgens were powerful and towering in stature, bestial in appearance and capable of rending a man limb from limb. Unlike their more primitive cousins, however, they were extremely intelligent, preferring science and clever manipulation of magical essences to warlike endeavors. Their inventions were highly sought after among the other nations, and with sufficient motivation the Wyrgens sometimes put aside their xenophobic tendencies to enter in trade arrangements with other races. Their feral cunning led to unease in their trade partners, but that discomfort was overlooked to garner the advantage that came with the Wyrgens’ technology, particularly in matters of war. As he heard all this, Amric could not help but ponder how selling machines of destruction to other races so they could destroy each other seemed like an arrangement in which the Wyrgens profited in two ways.
Establishing the military fort that would later become Keldrin’s Landing may have represented the first foothold of the civilized nations in the region, but as they expanded, men found the Wyrgens and Stronghold already here. No one could say whether the Wyrgens had built Stronghold themselves, or if they had merely appropriated it for their own. For their part, the Wyrgens were tight-lipped on the subject.
Keldrin’s Landing had established a trade relationship with Stronghold, and thus enjoyed more efficient mining and research equipment, with a dramatic effect on profits. With the spreading disruption, the city had been pressing for the Wyrgens to produce advanced defensive measures by which the town could protect itself and the surrounding countryside. Then contact with the Wyrgens was lost.
Subsequent envoys to Stronghold had not returned. Morland admitted to having formed his own surreptitious side arrangement with the Wyrgens, for purposes he refused to divulge; Amric was certain it was for some dark purpose, given the merchant’s soulless avarice, but even Morland’s considerable resources had not enabled him to reach his private contacts.
All of this left Amric facing the bridge and pondering the unknowable. It was possible the Wyrgens were hidden to view inside, unaware or uncaring of their approach, or that no other envoy had made it here or survived the return trip. It was possible, but the alternatives were of more immediate concern. Whether the Wyrgens had fled Stronghold, or remained there but shunned the outside world, the bridge could be a trap to ward off intruders. More sinister yet, if something strong enough to eradicate or drive away the Wyrgens had taken up residence in Stronghold, the riders faced an even more uncertain reception.
Amric gave a mental shrug. There was nothing for it but to try. He would not back down before mere speculation. He strode to his horse and stepped into the saddle. He looked to the others, finding all eyes upon him. Without comment, he turned and guided the bay forward and onto the bridge.
He rode several yards out, and the structure held firm. He paused and glanced back to see his companions gathered at the foot of the bridge, and he resumed crossing. Out over the yawning chasm he rode, steady and unhurried. His horse’s hooves rang eerily against the metal frame. Midway across the span, he looked over his shoulder to see the others crossing as well, each spaced a score of yards from the next to distribute the weight. Amric was now confident they need not have bothered, as the bridge made no protest, no creaking or cracking under the weight of horse and rider. In fact, the only indication that he was not on solid ground came in the form of an almost indiscernible swaying with the cross wind.
What seemed an eternity later, he reached the wide stone balcony before the outer wall of the fortress. A huge, square entrance gaped before him, with raised portcullis leading into a sunlit inner courtyard. Amric rode forward to ensure no one lurked within, and then waited for his companions to join him. The level top of the bluff that had seemed so expansive at the other end looked miniscule from this vantage, its thick copse of trees no more than a smudge of green now against a veritable sea of stone.
One by one the riders gained the balcony, and together they passed under the gate and into Stronghold’s grounds.
Amric scanned the empty courtyard. It was a large, enclosed grassy area on a slight incline from the thick outer wall to the foot of the fortress. A number of smaller buildings were scattered about, each sizeable in its own right but dwarfed to insignificance by the vastness of the brooding edifice looming above. The swordsman gazed up the disorienting expanse that stretched away above them, perhaps even as far as the mountain’s peak itself. Its face was dimpled by many small, shadowed openings starting high above the ground, and when he widened his perspective to take in a larger part of the architecture, he noted strata of epic proportions punctuated by huge, blocky buttresses and other jutting projections. There was no other visible ornamentation, and he saw no seams anywhere to suggest tight-fit ashlar blocks. It appeared as if the entire colossal structure was carved by the same sculptor as the mysterious bridge, and somehow shaped whole from the flesh of the mountain.
At the base of the fortress, he spied a sweeping set of stairs ascending to a recess in the wall, which looked to be the only available path from the courtyard into the fortress.
“This building is a stable,” Valkarr said, pointing to one of the smaller buildings.
“And this other looks to be living quarters,” Amric put in. “I think we are looking upon support structures for visitors the Wyrgens prefer to keep outside the fortress proper.”
Bellimar nodded, his eyes roving over the face of the fortress. “That would be in keeping with the attitude of the Wyrgens. Few are the members of other races who have been within Stronghold itself. I would expect to find concentric layers of increasing restriction inside, with everything truly precious to the Wyrgens found deep within, toward the core.”
They allowed the horses to graze on the unkempt grass of the courtyard, and Amric set Halthak and Bellimar to watching the fortress for any sign of life while he and Valkarr searched the out-buildings. They found no evidence of passage by their friends, and Amric was disappointed but not surprised. This seemed a little known entrance to Stronghold and had not been indicated on Morland’s maps, which presumably were identical to those given to the Sil’ath party. If not for Bellimar’s excursion after the encounter with the bloodbeasts, Amric’s party would not have discovered this alternate route either. He wondered how many more obscured entrances could be found around the perimeter of the place, in addition to the heavily fortified main entry to which the forest road led.
The stable proved empty, as had the other satellite buildings, but it was well stocked with feed. They secured the horses there, since they would only be a hindrance within Stronghold, and they gathered at the stairs leading to the recessed entrance they had seen. Wary and watchful, they ascended the steps with Amric in the lead. At the top of the stairway, they found themselves looking into a long, high-ceilinged corridor that ended at a dark set of double doors. Amric stalked down the length of it, and the others followed, with Valkarr trailing behind like a ghost.
Up close, the towering doors shone with a dim, coppery hue, and what little light survived the length of the corridor was cast back in feeble glints from their metal surface. Looking about, Amric could see no handle, knocker or bell anywhere, so he stepped to the door and hammered his fist against it. So heavy and solid was the portal that a muffled series of thumps was all he could elicit. Drawing one of his swords, he slammed the hilt’s pommel against the door and was rewarded with hollow booming sounds, but he was still dubious it would carry deep enough into such a vast place to draw its inhabitants to the door. They waited half a minute without response, and then he repeated the maneuver. After a dozen tries, he turned away in frustration.
He was about to suggest they return to the courtyard and attempt to enter one of the lofty windows when a clicking sound spun him around. One of the doors swung outward.
Amric was tall, standing half a head above most men, but the grizzled snout that thrust past the edge of the door was another half a head above him. A long, wolf-like visage followed, with a bristling mane of unruly fur running down a neck corded thick with muscle. The creature wore only a simple tunic belted around its waist, which covered the furry, muscular form from midsection to knees. Dark, liquid eyes glared out at the visitors, taking in each in turn, and the creature’s lips peeled back from finger-length fangs.
Amric’s scalp prickled in warning as he studied the feral gleam in those eyes. Though he had never before encountered a Wyrgen, he could see the beast was powerfully built, from its heavy shoulders and barrel chest to its long, wicked talons. It was not, however, the Wyrgen’s physical presence that alarmed him. Instead it was the gamut of emotions that passed, for a fleeting moment, unguarded in its expression. He knew the Wyrgens came from wilder stock than most civilized races and might well be subject to more turbulent emotions, but still he was certain that in addition to shrewd intelligence, he had also glimpsed covetous scheming and more than a touch of madness.
“Are you real?” it asked in a rumbling, bass growl.
“As real as you are,” Amric said, surprised at the query.
The Wyrgen tilted its head to regard him through narrowed eyes before flicking its ears back, evidently finding the answer satisfactory. “Then are you mad to be here, causing a clamor and drawing attention to yourselves?” it demanded, peering back over its shoulder into the interior of the fortress.
Amric frowned, noting the tension manifest in the creature’s body language. He shared a glance with Bellimar, whose puzzled expression indicated this made no more sense to him.
“We meant no offense, friend,” the swordsman said. “We seek a party of Sil’ath warriors, and we have reason to believe they came here. In addition, the merchant Morland from Keldrin’s Landing wishes to ascertain the welfare of a friend here, a leader among your kind by the name of Grelthus.”
The Wyrgen turned its stare upon him again. “Morland does not have friends,” it snorted. “That one sees others only as tools to be used or obstacles to be removed. But I can assure you that Grelthus still lives, and I can take you to him, if we move quickly.”
“Why must we move quickly?” Bellimar asked. “Is Stronghold no longer open to visitors?”
The creature looked past Amric to fix upon the old man. “Stronghold has never been open to other races, ancient one. But recent events have made it less tolerant of their presence than ever before.”
“What events?” Bellimar returned. “What has happened here?”
The Wyrgen’s huge hand tightened on the door, its talons sliding across the metal surface with a faint squeal. A growl roiled in its chest as it darted another glance over its shoulder. “We cannot discuss it here and now. The sounds will have drawn them, and they could be here at any moment. Follow me to safety, if you would live.”
“Who do you fear?” Amric asked. “Has Stronghold been seized?”
But the Wyrgen had already vanished from the doorway, leaving it ajar behind him. Amric heard the receding sounds of its padding feet, the talons clicking lightly on the stone floor. He muttered an oath and moved forward to peer through the aperture. A vast antechamber stretched away within, lit by eerie lamps that never flickered against the great stone columns from which they hung. The ceiling was lost to view in the gloom, but layer upon layer of stone balustrades encircled the large chamber, each bordering wide terraces that overlooked the center. A honeycomb of corridors branched from all sides, and at the far end was a stairway rising to the next floor. The Wyrgen was loping at a hurried pace across the middle of the room and toward that stairway, casting furtive glances to either side as it went.
Amric swore again. There was nothing about the Wyrgen or this place that felt right, but they had little choice. The creature was the only uncorrupted life they had encountered since entering the forest, and it was warning them of imminent danger. Moreover, it claimed to know the whereabouts of Morland’s contact. Perhaps one or both of them would serve as their advocates within Stronghold, and help ascertain if the Sil’ath party had come this way. If what Bellimar had said about the Wyrgens and Stronghold’s construction was accurate, it would be difficult to force an entrance elsewhere. This fellow had admitted them into the interior, and they might not get another such opportunity. Amric just hoped that whatever waited inside would not prove worse than the menaces without.
Amric plunged through the door and into Stronghold, and the others followed close at his heels.
The Wyrgen reached the stairway and bounded up it, taking several steps at a time. It paused halfway up the stairs, tense, listening and scenting the air. Spinning into a crouch, it bared a mouthful of teeth at them in an expression that could have been either hostility or encouragement, for all Amric could tell, and then it beckoned them forward with a frantic wave of one claw. They hurried across the chamber like a chain of wraiths, and by the time they reached the foot of the stairs, the Wyrgen was disappearing from sight at the top. Amric and Valkarr sprinted up the stairway to find the creature darting from corridor to corridor, pausing at each opening with twitching ears and quivering nose. Settling upon one, it again motioned for them to follow. Halthak and Bellimar joined them on the second level terrace, and the companions raced after the Wyrgen.
As it turned to run ahead down the corridor, however, the Wyrgen suddenly drew up short, its head cocked. After a long moment, it whirled and, dropping almost to its belly, slunk on all fours to the bannister. Amric and Valkarr glided to the edge and crouched down, peering into the open chamber below as well.
Snarls and staccato grunts issued from a ground floor corridor beneath the terrace where Amric and the others hid, and seconds later two more Wyrgens burst into view. These wore no clothing at all, and their mien was even more savage than the individual who had answered the door. The pair stalked forward, bent low, talons spread wide at the end of long, powerful arms. Spying the open doorway to the courtyard, one hulking brute gave a roar of fury and lunged forward on all fours. The other was but an instant behind, and they covered the distance with astonishing speed. Sliding to a halt at the metal doors, they stood once more on their hind legs and seized the door, the great muscles bunching in their broad backs as they threw it open. One of the beasts hurtled through the opening and out of sight.
Amric went cold, thinking of the horses, but he did not have long to worry. The other Wyrgen, seeming at first on the verge of following its companion, hesitated in the doorway and then spun back to glare about the chamber. Amric gave a start as he realized the eyes of the beast were glowing crimson, afire with some strange energy that stood stark against the dimness of the chamber. Closer scrutiny revealed that its talons were glowing as well, the same hue, albeit not as brightly.
The Wyrgen lifted its nose and took several uncertain steps into the room, shuffling first one direction and then another, its eyes narrowed to bright scarlet pinpoints of light. It uttered a series of harsh, barking grunts, and within moments the shadow of the departed Wyrgen fell across the open doorway. Amric heaved an inward sigh of relief that the hunter had not gone far enough to hear or scent the horses in the stable building. It came through in a slow prowl, its muzzle held low, and he saw that its eyes and claws radiated an icy blue, rather than matching the strange red of the other.
On the terrace, the first Wyrgen slid back on its belly from the bannister and hunched in silence to all fours. It gave Amric a meaningful look, and then crept toward the hallway it had indicated before. Amric and Valkarr inched back from the terrace edge, rising to their feet only when well out of sight, and they glided after their guide. Halthak and Bellimar followed, making every effort to be just as noiseless.
They had gone a scarce twenty yards when a furious, strident howl reverberated in the chamber behind them.
Their Wyrgen guide hesitated, looking back at its charges with cold calculation. Then it waved them on and sped away down the corridor. Amric and his companions pelted after it, favoring speed over stealth now. Numerous doors blurred by as they ran, and though Amric and Valkarr slowed their pace somewhat so as not to leave Bellimar and Halthak behind, they could not have kept pace with the fleeing Wyrgen even if unhindered. The creature bolted down the stone hallway, sometimes dropping to run on all fours in its haste, and disappeared around a dim corner far ahead of them. When Amric reached that same corner, he gazed down another long hallway with a sporadic assortment of doors on either side. It was unadorned like the last one, crossed by another corridor at its end. Their guide was no longer in sight. How easy it would be to lose one’s way, the warrior reflected, in this rabbit’s warren of twisting, uniform tunnels. His thoughts darkened further as he wondered if their escort had intended such an outcome from the beginning.
He glanced back the way they had come. Just as Halthak and Bellimar reached the corner, the two Wyrgens from below appeared at the mouth of the corridor. Baying in triumphant rage, the brutes hurtled forward in pursuit, their glowing talons ripping at the stone floor. Amric waved his lagging companions past and into the new hallway, then followed them for several paces before spinning in place to face the corner. Valkarr joined him, and their four blades whispered forth.
The tumult of panting snarls drew near, and Amric braced himself, balanced on the balls of his feet, one sword angled across his body and the other down and away to his side. The familiar icy void of battle settled about him, and he sought his place at its center, aware of everything around him and yet focused on nothing.
The hulking bodies exploded around the corner, a dark hurricane of force and fury. Their eyes, ablaze with eerie energies, went wide with surprise to find the warriors lying in wait and blocking their path. There was no hesitation, however, in their berserk, headlong charge. They launched at the warriors, jaws slavering and talons extended, in a blinding assault almost too quick to follow. As fast as they were, Amric and Valkarr moved faster yet. To meet the irresistible force of those massive forms head on would be instant death. Instead, they spun in mirror images of each other, side-stepping the attacks and hacking aside grasping claws. In blurs of motion, their spins brought their opposite swords to bear in thunderous descending strokes on the thick, outstretched necks. The Wyrgens crashed to the flagstones without another sound, the momentum of their charge carrying them several yards further in a tumbling slide that ended at Halthak’s feet. The healer looked down, saucer-eyed, clutching his staff before him with shaking hands. A spreading pool of crimson welled beneath the great, shaggy forms, their heads all but severed. Even in death, their clenched talons and staring eyes smoldered with sinister potency.
Amric looked down. He had felt a slight tug at his oiled mail shirt as his blue-clawed attacker passed, and he was astonished to find the burnished links neatly parted in a long gash, the edges of the incision encased in frost that was already melting in the warm air. He had been prepared and had moved with lightning swiftness, but still the creature had not only come within a fraction of an inch of drawing his blood, but had cut through Sil’ath-crafted mail armor with appalling ease. He inspected Valkarr, and found a similar score upon his friend’s scaly hide, slanting across his ribs, from his own scarlet-eyed assailant. That mark was blackened as if by fire, and blood oozed from the wound. Valkarr, of course, behaved as if the injury was utterly beneath notice. Using the tip of one sword, Amric lifted the heavy paw of one of the slain Wyrgens, tilting the appendage this way and that to study the wisps of scarlet flame surrounding the hooked nails.
“What do you make of it?” he asked, glancing at Bellimar.
The old man glided forward, his cheeks flushed and his eyes fever bright in a face that otherwise looked even more drawn and pale than usual. He stared at the fallen beasts for a long moment, seeming transfixed by the scene.
“Fascinating,” Bellimar said at last. “I cannot say for certain, but I would hazard a guess that they are infected by some primal force of magic. These individuals appear to have been affected with different elemental symptoms, but otherwise have both regressed to a more savage aspect. The Wyrgens rose above their primitive origins centuries ago, and they bear a strong repugnance now for that part of their heritage. I find it unlikely that any would voluntarily return to this base behavior.”
“Perhaps they are not Wyrgens?” Valkarr asked, cocking his head to the side as he studied the bodies.
Amric nodded. “We are not familiar with the Wyrgen races. Could it be these are not Wyrgens at all, and Stronghold has been overrun by a less civilized strain of the Wyrgen race?”
Bellimar gave a slow shake of his head. “I think not. Wyrgens are the tallest and heaviest of the Wyrgen races. These are too large by far to be any of the other variants with which I am familiar. Though, admittedly, none of the races are known to be steeped in radiation, as are these specimens.”
A scuffing sound from the corridor far ahead brought them sharply about. Their Wyrgen guide crept into view and froze in place, outlined in the murky light cast by the steady, flameless lamps along the stone walls. It started toward them with halting steps at first, and then picking up speed until it broke into a run. Uncertain of the creature’s intent, Amric stepped forward to meet it, blades still in hand. As it neared, the Wyrgen slowed to a shuffle, surveying the scene. It seemed to move in a fog, bewildered, its stricken gaze flitting from its fallen fellows to the naked, blood-smeared steel of the warriors’ blades.
“You killed them, you killed my…. Why did you kill them?”
“We had little choice,” Amric replied. “They attacked us, and we could find no escape.”
Those dark, liquid eyes rose to his, and Amric bore witness to a silent war raging within the Wyrgen. Murderous intent burned its way through the creature’s swirling confusion, and the creature tensed, claws convulsing open. Amric measured the distance between them out of reflex, preparing for the vicious rush that was to come. The rage vanished as quickly as it had emerged, however, and the Wyrgen subsided, lowering its head.
“Of course you had to defend yourselves, of course you did,” it mumbled. “My people are… not themselves, of late. They are not responsible for their actions, and must be treated as unwell.”
“What happened to your people?” Bellimar asked in a smooth, calming tone. “What calamity has befallen proud Stronghold?”
The Wyrgen grunted. “Proud Stronghold, indeed. Too prideful we were, and too confident in our ability to harness the greatest of forces. Our hubris was our downfall. Is it not always thus, with reckless mortal kind ever marching to our own doom?”
The woolly head snapped up as the Wyrgen took a sudden step toward them, causing Amric’s swords to flash up and to the ready. The Wyrgen, its expression animated, did not appear to notice in its eagerness.
“But I am not infected, and I will fix it. Am I not Stronghold’s head scientist? I will cure my people, bring them back. I just need more time.” The creature turned to Amric with a plaintive whine. “So you must not slay any more, do you understand? They understand not their actions.”
“I can make no such promise,” Amric said. “We will defend ourselves, if attacked again. But perhaps there need be no further conflict, if you can lead us to Grelthus and the place of safety you mentioned.”
The Wyrgen’s eyes burned with anger, but it dipped its muzzle in a slight nod. “I will lead you. Only I can take you to Grelthus.”
The creature gave a mad chuckle and turned away, padding down the corridor. Amric exchanged a look with the others, and they hastened to follow. A faint howl wafted after them. Half a beat later it was joined by a distant chorus of growling voices. Amric’s jaw tightened. It seemed more of Stronghold was becoming aware of the intruders.
The Wyrgen glanced over its rounded shoulder, eyes lambent in the lamplight and lips peeled back from long, glistening fangs in a mirthless grin. “It is not far now.” It thumped its chest with one hammer-like fist. “Only I, only I can take you to Grelthus.”
Their guide swung forward once more, and Amric heard the creature muttering to itself as it loped onward. The remote sounds of pursuit grew steadily louder as the companions made their way toward the forbidden heart of Stronghold, following on the heels of madness.