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?”