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 Bellima
r 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 ce
nturies 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.
The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept Page 15
