chapter 9
Amric paced the floor and fought a losing battle with impatience. He stalked back and forth at the narrow end of the long, windowless stone chamber, and each time he passed the door there, he paused to listen.
There were no sounds of pursuit outside, and there had been none for hours. Their Wyrgen guide––Amric had decided he was male––had been as good as his word on that count, leading them through a maze of twisting corridors and chambers separated by solid metal doors. The Wyrgen locked each portal behind them with a small, cube-like device which he was quick to pocket after every use. He explained in a mournful whisper how his people had degenerated too far to recall even the most basic use of their tools, and thus would be unable to reach them through the secured doors.
Even as he knew relief at the frustrated clamor of pursuit growing more distant with each twist and turn, Amric also felt a growing unease at how dependent they were becoming upon their erratic guide. They were at the heart of a hostile labyrinth, and only the Wyrgen possessed map and key.
As he paced, Amric studied the creature from the corner of his eye. The Wyrgen moved around a large table in the center of the room, rummaging through piles of clutter in what seemed an endless, aimless fashion. A walking path had been preserved around that expansive slab, but the rest of the chamber was littered with crates, stacks of parchment, and countless strange devices in various stages of either assembly or dismantling. A number of items caught the warrior’s roving eye in the quiet hours of waiting: a fanged skull formed entirely of crystal, a pulsating gem which worked its way through a gamut of different luminous colors, a pair of wicked-looking, clawed black gauntlets cleverly articulated for the movement of each joint, and many more. For every item he recognized or for which he could divine a purpose, there were a dozen more that baffled him. Given the spectacular level of disarray, he could only guess at the additional wonders buried in the room, beyond immediate sight.
The Wyrgen had insisted they wait here, in a room he declared safe, until all was quiet in the fortress once more. He had then rebuffed each subsequent query, even those as basic as inquiring after his name, by stressing the continued need for silence and patience. Their guide’s actions, which had at first seemed a reasonable set of precautions, now reeked instead of reticence. Amric ground his teeth with inward exasperation at the delay.
Halthak and Bellimar sat upon wooden crates which had been pinned beneath stacks of debris when they arrived, before the Wyrgen swept them clear. The healer dozed, sitting upright, his head bobbing forward. The old man was wrapped in his cloak, his eyes following every movement of the Wyrgen. Valkarr sat cross-legged on the floor with his back to a wall, one of his swords naked across his knees. His eyes were closed, and even Amric could not tell for certain if he was truly napping. The dried blood caking the side of the Sil’ath’s torso was the only remaining indication of his earlier wound, since Halthak had seen to it as soon as their flight permitted.
This had drawn a tremendous amount of interest from the Wyrgen, who had overturned a pile of debris in his haste to cross the room and witness the healer’s use of magic. “This is a most wondrous talent,” he breathed, regarding the Half-Ork in near rapture. Amric noted a moment of frenzied consideration pass behind the widened eyes, however, before they became guarded once more. Even hours later, as the Wyrgen dug through the chamber’s contents, he still cast furtive glances at the nodding healer when he thought no one was watching.
Amric listened at the door again, and again heard nothing. He growled, and wended his way through the clutter to the far end of the long chamber where another door identical to the first was set into that opposite wall. He pressed his ear to the cold metal panel, straining for long minutes to catch any sound. Did he imagine something there, a faint scraping sound, or perhaps a low cough?
“No attack will come from that direction,” the Wyrgen said, studying him over his shoulder. “I told you this before.”
“We have waited long enough,” Amric said. “Your people are no longer pursuing us. We should move while all is quiet.”
“We are safest here for now,” the Wyrgen grunted. “Stronghold is my home, and I have not survived these many months by being reckless. Have patience, human.”
“Why continue to wait?” Amric pressed. But the Wyrgen had already turned back to the table, and did not respond. Amric bit back his frustration and tried another approach.
“What is past this door? I think I heard something moving in whatever chamber lies beyond.”
The Wyrgen turned and regarded him with narrowed eyes. “An observation room lies that way, overlooking a grand experiment that stood to change our world. Alas, there are too few of us remaining to complete that work now.”
“And what of the movement I heard?” Amric continued. “Is Grelthus in the observation room?”
“No, Grelthus will not be found in there,” the Wyrgen replied with a deep, grating chuckle as he turned away once more.
“Is he coming here to us, then?”
The Wyrgen did not reply at once, and the swordsman thought at first he would ignore the question, as he had so many others over the intervening hours. After long seconds, however, he rumbled, “If you meet Grelthus, it will be here.”
At that statement, Amric exchanged a look with Bellimar. It seemed their chances of finding Morland’s contact were becoming less and less certain. The merchant had indicated that Grelthus held high stature in Stronghold, so Amric had been hoping to find someone more stable than their current guide, with sufficient influence to guarantee them safe passage among the Wyrgens. At least, he amended, among the Wyrgens who were not yet infected with whatever strange ailment coursed through Stronghold. Also, while this fellow claimed to know naught of their Sil’ath friends, Amric held out hope that Grelthus’s position of influence would translate to a broader network of information as well. Now that he had their guide talking, however, Amric intended to elicit as much information from him as possible.
“Why should Grelthus come here?” he asked. “I have seen you send no signal. Does he frequent these rooms?”
“Of course he does,” the Wyrgen snapped, an irritated snarl slipping into its tone. He lifted a sheaf of parchment papers and thumbed through them before throwing them aside. “These chambers, though currently in disrepair, are dedicated to science and research. And is Grelthus not Stronghold’s head scientist? Now be silent, for I must think.”
Amric frowned. “Grelthus is head scientist of Stronghold? Back in the corridor, you claimed that you were––” He paused as realization dawned. “You! You are Grelthus!”
The Wyrgen froze in the act of pushing aside a stack of relics, then swung slowly about to face him once more. The dark, liquid eyes darted to each of them in turn. Bellimar had not moved, but Halthak sat forward, awake now, and Valkarr, no longer feigning sleep, had slipped into a crouch with bared steel clenched in one fist. The Wyrgen’s gaze fell upon Amric once more, and the warrior watched a mad flicker of indecision pass through the wolf-like features. The muzzle curled in an unconscious snarl as the tall, powerful form tensed. Amric shifted his stance and relaxed, measuring his space to maneuver in the surrounding clutter. Just as in the hallway, however, the Wyrgen regained his composure with a concerted effort and the moment fell back from the brink of violence.
“I am Grelthus,” he growled.
“Why this damned deception, then?” Amric demanded through clenched teeth. “You could have revealed your identity at any time. Did you not believe that Morland directed us to you?”
“That Morland sent you is no evidence of your good intentions,” Grelthus said with a toothy sneer.
Amric found it difficult to argue the point, as the merchant was a snake. Even so, he had agreed to perform a duty, however distasteful. “Morland provided the maps and information that led us here. In exchange, he bade us inquire as to the disposition of your, ah, business arrangement with him, were we successful in locating you.”
Grelthus bared his teeth in a mirthless expression. “The merchant and I had an arrangement where the mutual benefit outweighed the mutual distrust, by a very slight margin. It has been superseded by more important matters, however, and our deal is now voided. I owe the man nothing.”
“I will carry your answer back to Morland,” Amric said in a measured tone. “Our dealings with him were out of necessity rather than choice, whereas our own goal is to determine the whereabouts of our missing friends, the party of Sil’ath I mentioned to you earlier. Now that we are being more truthful with one another, I ask you again: have you seen them?”
The Wyrgen met the warrior’s level gaze, head swaying slightly, dark eyes hooded. “No, human,” he said at last. “You must seek your friends elsewhere.”
Amric swallowed bitter disappointment and gave a tight nod. “Our friends were seeking the source of the disruption plaguing the region. Morland directed them here to Stronghold for answers. Can you tell us aught of this?”
“I wish that I could not,” the Wyrgen said with a rumbling sigh. “I wish I could disavow any knowledge of it, but you must understand that it is our nature to study such phenomena. Untold secrets beckoned, seemingly within reach––and with the convergence, and Stronghold so ideally located to study––but little did we realize…”
The Wyrgen’s broad shoulders slumped and his hands rose to claw at his head. An agonized groan escaped him. Bellimar leaned forward from his seat on the crate, eyes intent beneath delicate silver brows.
“What did you find, Grelthus?” the old man asked.
“It will be easier to show you,” Grelthus whispered, raising his shaggy head from his hands. “Come with me to the observation chamber. It is fitting that you see.”
Amric stepped aside as the Wyrgen crossed the room and, procuring the strange cube from the folds of his tunic, unlocked the inner door. The swordsman observed the action from the corner of his eye, noting how the cube was pressed to the metal surface above the door handle and twisted to one side, prompting the muffled click of a mechanism hidden within. Grelthus then swiftly palmed the device before throwing open the door and striding through. He descended into a narrow, darkened stairwell that ran perpendicular to the room, and Amric and his companions followed several paces behind.
The stairs plunged a considerable distance below the floor level of the room they had departed, forty feet or more by Amric’s reckoning, and were lit at their nether end by an eerie, flickering glow. Amric peered past the hulking form of the Wyrgen to the doorway below, where a shimmer of multi-hued light danced across the wall in bold relief against the shadows, cast from the chamber beyond. A vague sense of unease stole over him as they neared the bottom, where wispy fingers of light caressed the walls about them and clawed at the stairs beneath their feet.
Sudden vertigo lanced through him, and he almost missed the last step before the landing, reaching out one hurried arm to the wall to brace himself. His vision swam for one disorienting moment, and he glanced over his shoulder at his companions. They did not appear similarly affected. Instead, they looked back at him, their faces streaked with unearthly luminescence and taut with concern.
Amric shook his head to clear it. He took a deep, steadying breath, and passed through the doorway.
A long stone chamber stretched away before them, not unlike the one they had vacated above in terms of size and aspect. There the resemblance ended, however. This room was free of clutter, and had only the one doorway they had come through without a twin on the opposite side. A huge metal cage squatted at the far end of the room. It was capped top and bottom in large iron slabs, with thick supporting posts at each corner. The bars themselves were not metal; instead, crackling bluish beams of energy draped its sides. In the center of the cage was a heaping pile of cloth, and Amric felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir as he saw that bundle of material rustle and flap as if beat by an unseen wind. The cage was large enough to hold several men, if need be, and Amric spied an empty water pitcher lying on its side as well as a chamber pot pushed to the back corner. His nose wrinkled, informing him that the chamber pot had seen recent use.
The cage, with its sinuous bars of fire, was an unsettling sight, but it was not the only source of shimmering light permeating the chamber. The eyes of all in the room were drawn to one long side of the room, which overlooked a scene that dazzled and baffled the senses. At first it appeared the space was enclosed only on three sides and the entire right side opened onto a vast amphitheater. The tight echo of their own footsteps indicated a enclosed area, however, and the dull sheen hanging in midair soon gave the lie to that first impression. The whole of the wall was forged of a single great sheet of glass, or some other transparent material, several feet thick. Amric stepped over to it and brushed his fingers against it to confirm what his eyes doubted. He rapped his knuckles against the unblemished surface, and was rewarded with a feeble tapping sound that was quickly swallowed in the tomb-like silence. Clear as crystal it might be, but the wall seemed as solid and strong as the outer hide of any castle. Grelthus and the others joined him at the wall of glass, and together they looked upon the spectacle below.
The circular amphitheater was enormous, dwarfing even the expansive architecture they had passed through in their harrowing passage into the dark heart of Stronghold. Colossal stone columns stood like a grim ring of sentries, mounting from the floor far below their vantage point to a vaulted ceiling far above. Past the transparent wall, a wide set of stone stairs fell away before them to spill onto a broad terraced landing. Stairways of more modest size flowed downward and away on either side to one of a series of mezzanines encircling the room. The floor itself was comprised of a series of concentric circles, each dropping in elevation from the last to reach the lowest point at the center of the chamber. The entire gigantic coliseum seemed constructed around that center, focusing inward upon some unnamed, anticipated event there.
Looking down, Amric somehow doubted that the builders of this vast chamber had intended for what he was witnessing now.
A ragged fissure gaped at the center, the stone crumbling at its edges. The force which had torn the floor asunder had been sudden and explosive, for huge shards of granite were scattered from the crater to the distant walls in every direction. Adjusting for distance, Amric observed that some of those chunks of rock were better than the size of a cottage, and yet had been hurled hundreds of yards like the toys of a child. Portions of the surrounding pillars and walls had been torn loose in the passing of those ponderous missiles, with a spider’s web of cracks radiating from each point of impact.
From that angry wound in the ground rose a titanic geyser of flame, spearing upward almost to the ceiling. They watched, open-mouthed, as the fountain jetted and heaved, writhing like a live thing. It changed colors in fitful bursts, sometimes lingering on a multi-hued arrangement for several seconds and other times strobing through luminous colors in a sequence too rapid for the eye to follow. The fiery display pressed against Amric’s senses in a dizzying assault, forcing him to shade his eyes against its brilliance even as a dull roaring filled his ears.
The swordsman shook his head again, averting his gaze from the fountain. In truth, the shimmering, light-filled chamber in which they stood was little better, with their shadows dancing and twisting against the back wall in a mad mockery of their forms. Amric turned to study Grelthus, and found the Wyrgen staring down at the fountain, barrel chest heaving as his breath whistled through bared fangs.
“You are looking upon the remnants of a grand experiment,” Grelthus whispered. “It was to be our greatest triumph, and has instead become our darkest chapter.”
“What are we looking upon, Grelthus?” Amric asked.
The Wyrgen drew a shuddering breath. “I call it an Essence Fount, and since my people may be the first to have achieved such a thing, I think I can legitimately claim the right to name it.”
“The flame does not appear natural,” Halthak said, frowning.
“Natural?” Grelthus snorted. “A meaningless distinction. There are only the laws of the cosmos we understand, and those we have yet to decipher. The ancients were far beyond us on this path of comprehension. But I take your meaning, Ork. It is not a flame at all, but raw essence itself. It makes no heat or sound, and yet its power dwarfs any mundane fire––even of this size––to insignificance.”
“No sound?” Amric said. “It roars in my ears, within my head, fit to split my skull!”
Grelthus swung to look at him, head tilted to one side. “I hear nothing.”
Bellimar too was studying him with a pensive expression as he asked the Wyrgen, “Raw essence? You mean to suggest that we are looking upon a manifestation of pure magical force?”
Grelthus inclined his head. “Indeed, exactly so. But forgive me, you came seeking answers as to the region’s disruption, and I should start a few steps closer to the beginning.”
“Yes, closer to the beginning,” came a new voice from the back of the room. “So that he can form more gradual lies and thus steer you wrong undetected.”
They all whirled, and bare steel flashed into Valkarr’s hands. Amric gritted his teeth as dizziness washed over him. This place was somehow befuddling his senses, he thought fiercely, for his own swords should have been in hand against any threat with equal speed.
There was movement in the cage at the end of the room. The strange, wind-tugged pile of cloth lurched upward and became the standing form of a man, swathed in flowing robes. He was dirty and unshaven, and both his soiled clothing and grimy shoulder-length hair swirled with that same unfelt wind. He folded his arms across his chest and sky blue eyes raked over them in a baleful glare.
“My name is Syth,” he said. “And you are being lied to.”
“Pay no heed to this vermin,” Grelthus spat. “He is a violent criminal, detained here until he can be returned to face justice in Keldrin’s Landing.”
Amric looked from the prisoner to the Wyrgen. “What is this man’s crime?”
“He is a thief, caught invading Stronghold, and he wounded several of my people in his capture,” Grelthus responded.
“He lies, I have not harmed a one of these dogs,” Syth responded at once. He fixed the Wyrgen with a level stare as a slow, wintry smile crept onto his features. “But rest assured I will harm at least one when I leave.”
Grelthus gave a deep, menacing growl and took half a step toward the cage. “The pest is fortunate that I hold our peaceful relations with the human colony in such high value, for he would otherwise face immediate death under Stronghold’s laws for his intrusion.”
“Oh, indeed,” Syth snarled. “What a kindness you have done me, holding me here these many long weeks as you ponder how best to make use of my nature in your frantic experiments.”
“And what exactly is your nature, Syth?” Bellimar asked.
“I am a half-breed,” Syth said. “I am half human, and half wind elemental.”
“Marvelous,” Bellimar breathed. “Of course, I should have seen it.”
Amric studied the man anew, astonished. The few elementals he had encountered had been wild and unpredictable, more capricious forces of nature than sentient beings; the only air elemental he had seen before had lacked even a solid form. He tried and failed to imagine how they could produce offspring with humans, or how being infused with such a tempestuous, magical force would affect a man. He realized the man’s clothing, which had seemed rustled by a breeze when he was in repose, now whipped and curled about him as he grew agitated.
“This deceitful fool is grasping at any chance, however remote,” Syth continued in a heated tone. “He seeks redemption for himself, and for a people he destroyed. I warn you, do not trust him, for if he has brought you this deeply into Stronghold, it is only because he hopes to make use of you as well.”
The Wyrgen took another furious step toward the cage, claws flaring open. Then, with a visible effort, he shook himself and turned his back on Syth. “I offer my… apologies for my churlish behavior, friends. I grieve for my people, and have seen very little rest since this all began. I am not myself, and this one provokes me at every opportunity, so that I was forced at last to move his cell down here where he could no longer disrupt my work.”
In his cage, Syth made a short, rude noise and rolled his eyes. Grelthus stiffened where he stood, but did not turn. Amric looked from one to the other. He certainly needed no additional reason to mistrust their Wyrgen guide, but the whole exchange had supplied much food for thought. He knew the truth hovered somewhere in between at best, though which direction of center he could not say. He knew as well that the Wyrgen had more yet to reveal. He stepped in front of Grelthus and waited until the shaggy head lifted to meet his gaze.
“You mentioned starting your tale from the proper beginning?” he said.
“Not the beginning,” Grelthus corrected. “There is much that remains a mystery even to us who sought to study the phenomenon. But certainly it is a beginning, and I will share what I do know.”
The Wyrgen turned away, and approached the glass wall once more with slow, shuffling strides. He stood there in silence for a time, staring at the blazing fountain as its shifting colors undulated over his thick, unruly fur. He was quiet so long that Amric began to wonder if he had become enthralled with the thing and forgotten their presence entirely. He spoke at last, however, and his low-pitched voice was ragged with sorrow.
“The ley lines are a place to begin. Just as life-giving blood moves through our bodies, so does magical force circulate throughout our world in a network of ley lines. Magic, as you know, has many aspects and manifestations, from elemental to Unlife; but at its most primal, its most fundamental, this force is called Essence. It is neither good nor evil, but instead is merely energy in its purest form, containing the power to create or destroy, to heal or enslave. It becomes tainted and altered by the artisan, the purpose and the vessel through which it is used.
“Essence pulses and flows about our world––and perhaps even between worlds, we know not for certain––through invisible ley lines. Some ley lines are major, like arteries in the body, and can be detected by those sensitive to matters arcane; some are minor, like a web of veins finer than hair, significant only in aggregate. This network of energy, and the field of power it creates, imbues all life on our world and gives rise to all manner of magical creatures. Those that possess sufficient affinity for the energy can learn to manipulate the Essence within them, and about them.
Grelthus threw a glance over his shoulder. “Forgive me if I am covering familiar ground,” he said, “but I find it easiest to organize my thoughts if I am thorough.”
He drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly before resuming his lecture.
“This region has always been highly magical because a series of major ley lines pass through it. Stronghold itself was built atop one of these major ley lines, and truly the creation of this fortress was only possible by harnessing a fraction of the line’s power to amplify the methods of the builders. We have tried to map the course of these arteries, and we believe they converge somewhere deep within the forest at the eastern end of the bay. What a place of power must be found there, if we could but get close enough to study it––!”
Grelthus paused, a shudder passing through his tall frame. After a moment, he continued. “But I am digressing. The lands to the east have become more and more hazardous, and were impassable by the time we realized their importance. As I was saying, Stronghold stands astride a major ley line, which has enabled rapid advances in our studies. When your kind invaded the region, we met your overtures with some reserve. Certainly, we could have eradicated the interlopers, for Keldrin’s Landing was but a paltry fort of twigs and savages at the time. But more would have followed. They always do. Your kind had scented the riches to be obtained, and nothing would forestall their greed. So we let the lesser races have their minerals and shiny baubles, and we entered a restrained trade arrangement with them, all the while making evident our superior technology to curb any imperialistic notions. The true wealth to be had was in studying and harnessing the unique concentration of power here. The merchant Morland, when he came, understood this. He sought a means by which to share in our research, by way of incentive or leverage. Or, as is more commonly his wont, by both methods.”
The Wyrgen’s muzzle split in a predatory grin. “A fool he was, but useful in his way.”
“What went wrong, then?” Amric asked.
The grin faltered, faded. “A handful of years ago, the ley lines in the region grew even stronger, and magical activity rose in proportion. The energy flow continued to intensify, past all expected limits, like stately rivers suddenly overflowing with raging floodwaters, wreaking havoc on the surrounding lands. We cannot explain it, but it is as if something is drawing an unprecedented amount of current from all directions to this region. We, of course, saw this as an opportunity.”
“Naturally,” sneered Syth, glaring from his cage at the Wyrgen, but the latter did not appear to have heard him.
“We built this chamber like a giant focusing lens to tap into the ley line, to divert a tiny fraction of its force for study, and to contain it within well-shielded confines. But we did not realize to what extent the energy had swollen. So powerful, so concentrated had it become that it took visible form here, bursting past all our carefully constructed restraints. All in the chamber itself were slain in an instant. Those beyond were bathed in a wash of radiant energy that permeated their forms even as they fought to contain it in the chamber below.”
Amric stared in horror even as Halthak put it to strangled words, “So all your people, with the fiery eyes…?”
“Infected,” Grelthus nodded, his voice tight. “Corrupted by Essence. Many died in the days that followed, retching and bleeding. The ones who survived became what you have seen. The magic affected individuals differently, manifesting as different elemental energies such as fire, or ice, or worse. They have reverted to base savagery, and show no recognition whatsoever when they gaze upon me. I am now an exile, forced to flee my own kind.”
“How did you survive the event?” Amric inquired.
“I was in this very viewing chamber,” Grelthus said, “perhaps the only one that withstood the eruption, through some stroke of luck or hellish misfortune.” The Wyrgen put a tentative hand to the transparent wall. “I know it is a force of nature, no more sentient than a thunderstorm. At times, however, I think it probes at my barriers like a live thing, looking for any weakness, tireless in its pursuit of the one who eluded it…”
“Were there no other survivors, then?” Valkarr interrupted.
Grelthus let his hand drop and gave a barely perceptible, defeated shrug. “I have seen no uncorrupted Wyrgens, save myself. Any who did not succumb to the Essence were probably torn asunder by their erstwhile comrades. By limiting my exposure to compromised chambers and always hiding from my people, I have survived these past months.”
Amric felt a chill travel his spine as he envisioned mysterious forces contaminating their flesh as they traversed the halls of Stronghold on their way in, oblivious to the unseen danger. “And you hope yet to cure your people?” He failed to keep a note of skepticism from his voice.
The Wyrgen wheeled on him, snarling. “I must!” he hissed. “What alternative is there? We are a people rightfully proud of our mastery of arcane science, sitting atop what might well be the greatest source of power in our world. If the answer can be found, it must be here!”
“Of course, and it is a noble endeavor,” Amric soothed at once. “It is just that I know very little of the intricacies of magic, and would be lost as to how to proceed, were I in your place.”
He waited until some of the tension eased from the bristling form, before asking his next question, careful to frame it in a neutral manner. “Is this Essence Fount then responsible for the sudden spread of dark creatures in the region?”
The Wyrgen shook his head. “Nay, the Fount itself is but a sliver of the elevated currents coursing through the lands. It is an effect localized to Stronghold and possibly its grounds, but no further. But its underlying cause, the greatly increased Essence throughout the region, will continue to amplify many things and cause them to strengthen, to swell in numbers.”
Amric frowned, absorbing this. “With so much magic in the area, how does it not corrupt all life as it has done your people?”
“You have a sharp mind, warrior,” Grelthus said, regarding him with a hint of new respect. “You could do more than swing a blade. As I said, this is a localized reaction. Consider your body’s response to an invading infection, how the flesh swells and becomes an angry red in color, discharging unhealthy fluids and scabbing over. The body, a wondrous machine, focuses its defensive efforts on repelling the invader. In our zeal, our hubris, we provoked such a targeted response, and secured our own downfall.”
“You sought to study and harness the symptom, then, while the true source remains unknown.”
“Regrettably true,” Grelthus said. “Though I suspect the answer might lie further east, at the convergence of these major ley lines, if one could but forge a path there and somehow survive whatever forces have congregated.”
In silence they turned back to study the blazing fountain, each in the room alone with his own thoughts for a time. Amric’s mind raced over their options from this point. It seemed tantamount to suicide to continue further east, but if there was any evidence his Sil’ath friends had gone that way, he would follow. Since they did not appear to have made it even here, however, the logical course was to double back and resume the search. Even if the source of the spreading corruption was far to the east, they would need to join forces with their comrades against this hostile land. And if their friends had perished, there was the requisite matter of avenging their deaths; if necessary, he would attend to that matter before making any further decisions about how best to complete their mission.
Amric felt dizziness wash over him once more, and the roaring sound returned to batter at his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight. Why was the damned thing affecting him so? And why only him?
Grelthus uttered an angry growl, interrupting the warrior’s thoughts. The Wyrgen stalked over to the cage and halted several paces from the crackling blue energy bars, bowing his shaggy head before the prisoner.
“I regret the necessity to detain you, thief, but even more so I regret that distress and distraction have made of me a poor host. Pass your water pitcher through the bars, so that I may refill it for you.”
Syth folded his arms across his chest and shook his head, glaring at the Wyrgen. “You cannot part your jaws without lies spilling forth, you mangy cur. There is no food or water in this room, and if you depart this chamber alone you will surely betray your guests and imprison them down here, even as you have done to me.”
“Very well,” Grelthus sighed, spreading his hands and turning to Halthak. “Healer, would you do this mistrustful prisoner the kindness of refilling his water urn, from the barrel by the door in the chamber above? I will prepare his meal later, for that requires travel to another chamber and I would not ask it of you. While you are gone, I will remain here, guarded by your warrior friends.”
Halthak looked from the Wyrgen to Amric, and then to the prisoner. He took a step toward the cage, but Grelthus raised one clawed hand to forestall him.
“First kick the jug out of the cage, thief,” Grelthus snarled. “The thief moves like lightning, and is too cunning by half.”
Syth favored the Wyrgen with a dark scowl, but did as he was bid, toeing the water jug a safe distance from the bars. “What are you playing at, Grelthus?” he asked, brow furrowed. “Why this sudden show of concern for my welfare?”
The Wyrgen ignored him as Halthak retrieved the pitcher and started for the stairs. When the Half-Ork had passed out of view, Grelthus strode back to the glass wall.
“My people sometimes come to the chamber below to gaze upon the Essence Fount,” he rumbled. “Once corrupted, they seem no longer troubled by its energies. They treat it with some primitive reverence, almost worship. Perhaps it has become a god to them, in their weakened minds. Sometimes I can see them lurking behind the great columns, or in the far-flung shadows of the chamber, and I try to catalog the energies afflicting them. I know the red is fire, the blue a bitter cold, and there is a sickly green that eats at the flesh about wounds…”
The Wyrgen muttered in a low tone, seemingly more to himself than to any other in the room. He pressed himself against the glass wall, peering downward in search of the self-same subjects of his discourse. He slid back and forth along the wall, seeking various viewing angles as his ongoing chatter became a detailed recounting of his many failed attempts to cure his compatriots. Amric began to tune out the rambling jargon, and he found himself glancing down as well to seek hidden figures below.
Suddenly he realized their mistake.
He had stepped back from the viewing wall in an unconscious movement to allow the Wyrgen to travel its length, and he noted that Valkarr had done the same. Grelthus, in his wanderings, and seemingly intent on the scene below, had put himself closer to the stairwell than either of the warriors by almost a full pace. And the chase earlier had already proven the astonishing speed of the Wyrgens.
Even as awareness struck, the furry figure burst into motion. He crossed the room in a single explosive leap and vanished up the darkened stairwell. The warriors sprinted in immediate pursuit. Amric cursed his weakness as the strange dizziness returned and clutched at his trembling legs, and he forced obedience from his unwilling muscles with an effort of will.
They reached the foot of the stairs with Syth’s roar of outrage echoing behind them. From above came a startled cry, the heavy thud of bodies colliding, and the booming crash of the thick metal door slamming shut. Amric and Valkarr vaulted up the stairs, taking several at a time. A clattering sound reached their ears, and the water jug followed, sloshing water as it tumbled end over end down the stone steps.
The warriors gained the landing at the top and hurled themselves against the polished door, but they might as well have been slapping at the base of a mountain for all the good it did them. They hammered at the handle with their sword hilts, and pried at the outline for exposed hinges or other mechanics, but to no avail.
At last they fell back, panting, the acrid taste of defeat rising in their throats like bile. It was no use. Halthak was taken, and the door was impervious to their efforts. They were trapped.