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.
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.