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.”