“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…”