“A moment, while I reclaim what is mine,” Syth murmured, pausing at the long table. He shoved stacks of debris aside, his movements growing almost frantic as he searched for something. With a growl of triumph, he lifted the black metal gauntlets that Amric had seen there earlier. Syth donned them immediately, flexing the cleverly jointed fingers several times and inspecting the ebon-clawed tips. A wicked grin spread across his features.
“Now I am ready,” he said.
Amric frowned. A flicker of something-pain, or perhaps relief-had twisted the man’s expression when he regained the devices. He turned to scan the chamber. “You mentioned seeing maps of Stronghold here before. Do you see them now?”
Syth shook his head. “I tried to examine them without drawing the attention of Grelthus, but he caught me one day and removed them all from the room. I know not where he hid them.”
“How much do you remember of them?” Bellimar asked. The old man carried Halthak’s discarded staff, and was circling the table as he studied its contents.
“Some,” the thief admitted, “though it has been weeks now since I saw them. And I was more intent on plotting my eventual escape route from the fortress than looking for the bastard’s sanctuaries. Still, I recall him marking certain rooms and shading sections of the map to demarcate paths of high and low activity.”
“Take us to the nearest,” Amric said. He moved to the closed metal door and employed the key once more, then pocketed the device. He glanced back, looking to each of them until he received a nod in return, and then he cracked the door and peered out into the hallway beyond. It was still and silent as a tomb, lit along its length by those unwavering, flameless lamps. He waved the others forward, easing the door fully open and drawing his remaining sword.
“Tell me, thief,” he said. “Were your earlier words boastful or true? Are you truly a good hand in a fight?”
“You will find out soon enough,” Syth responded with a fierce grin.
They slipped into the empty corridor.
Awareness returned to Halthak in measured stages. First came the throbbing, like a steady, ruthless drum inside his skull. Second, as by reflex he tried to put a hand to his head, he realized his hands were bound behind him. His eyes flared open. He was lying prostrate on a stone floor, and he sighted along the cold flagstones against which his cheek was pressed. Memory began to make a grudging return as well. He recalled entering the darkened stairwell with water pitcher in hand for the prisoner Syth when a bulky silhouette hurtled up the stairs and filled his vision. He had flinched to the side in an effort to avoid the onrushing mass, but it caught him in a grasp like iron and dashed him against the wall behind him. His head struck the unforgiving granite, and the world was torn from him for a time.
Halthak surveyed his surroundings, or at least what little he was able to from his lowly vantage point. He was in another viewing chamber, with the Essence Fount’s lurid hues flickering against the stone. At first he thought it was the same chamber he had vacated, and perhaps he had fallen down the stairs, but the contents of the room told him different. The other viewing chamber had been almost empty except for Syth’s cage, and this room contained a row of smaller tables hemmed in by stacks of crates and other clutter. He could see no more from his current orientation, as he was facing a corner where the stone and glass walls met. There was a faint shimmer of reflection in the transparent material of the viewing wall, but it was not sufficient to perceive any additional detail in the room at his back.
And he would very much like to see more, as something was moving behind him in the chamber.
He listened to the shuffling sounds of movement, accompanied by bursts of low muttering. There was a pause followed by the clink of metal upon metal, and then the movement resumed. There was nothing for it, Halthak decided; he gained little by remaining in this position, pretending to be unconscious still. He needed to assess his situation, to determine where he was and how many of his companions were present. With a grunt of effort, he heaved himself to a sitting position and fought back a wave of dizziness.
The muttering stopped.
“Excellent, you are awake,” said a deep, guttural voice. “We can begin.”
The world swam into focus, and Halthak found himself staring into the dark, liquid eyes of Grelthus, as the Wyrgen sank into a crouch before him. A quick scan of the room showed that he was alone with his captor; it also revealed a chamber with a much more functional arrangement than the other viewing chamber had evinced. Several tables were large enough for a man to lie upon, and thick leather straps sprouting from their surfaces confirmed their dark purpose. Interspersed with these were smaller tables, replete with metal implements of various sinister designs. A cylindrical device squatted at the center of the room, rising almost to the ceiling. It bulged outward at its middle, coursing with strange energy, and shiny black cables snaked from it to various points within the room. Looking upon it, Halthak was struck by the impression of some great nest of wasps, teeming inside with obscene life.
Grelthus continued to watch him as he examined the chamber, and the Wyrgen’s muzzle began a slow nod as grim realization stole over the Half-Ork.
“Yes, you are apprised of your situation now,” Grelthus said. “We will not be disturbed here.”
“Where are my companions?” Halthak demanded. “Have you harmed them?”
The Wyrgen’s grizzled head tilted to the side, and one tufted ear twitched. He lashed out with one powerful arm in a blur of motion. Halthak found himself on his back, his head ringing from the blow, and the stinging wetness of his own blood running down the side of his face. He blinked a few times and drew in ragged breaths until his vision cleared. Then, with a laborious combination of levering his bound arms and squirming, he sat up again. Grelthus still crouched before him, impassive expression unchanged.
“This will be a conversation only in the sense that I will ask questions and you will answer them,” the Wyrgen rumbled. “It is best that you learn this lesson quickly, for we have much to do.”
Halthak said nothing, glaring at the creature. Blood trickled down his whiskered jaw and into the neck of his robes. Grelthus nodded and stood, towering over him, and waved one clawed hand in a permissive gesture.
“Good, then we have an understanding. You may heal yourself now, and we will begin again.”
Halthak began to do just that; he reached for his magic and was rewarded by its ready surge, an invigorating suffusion of warmth spreading through him. Ridding himself of the infernal pounding ache in his head would enable him to think more clearly, and he would need his wits about him if he hoped to escape the Wyrgen and rejoin his companions. But then, as he was on the verge of directing the gathered healing energy with a familiar effort of will, some instinct made him pause. He could feel the weight of the Wyrgen’s gaze upon him still, burning in its intensity, and that very eagerness nagged at him. His addled thoughts congealed into suspicions and struggled to chain together.
Grelthus had isolated him from the others by sending him for the water pitcher while ostensibly remaining under guard in the chamber below. Rather than escape alone, the Wyrgen had instead assaulted him and brought him to this new room, unconscious and bound. If his captor’s words were to be believed, the healer was now beyond rescue, and the Wyrgen had plans for him. Upon finding himself captive, Halthak had at first seen himself as the only viable choice; the warriors were far too skilled in combat to subdue easily, and there was something mysterious and unsettling about Bellimar that made him a less likely choice as well, despite his apparent age.