That left Halthak as the most vulnerable. But why take a hostage at all? Grelthus could have used his superior knowledge of Stronghold’s labyrinthine layout to evade pursuit and leave them all behind, trapped and lost. For that matter, why draw them deep into the heart of Stronghold in the first place? If his goal from the beginning had been to see them slain, he could have left them to the tender mercies of his corrupted brethren without ever so much as showing himself.
It followed then that Grelthus had thought to make use of them in some way, and now wanted something from Halthak. Admittedly, the conversation could have become adversarial after Halthak left the room to fetch the pitcher, but he had heard no sounds of conflict from below, no voices raised in heated exchange. And if the Wyrgen had meant to trap them all in the chamber below, he could have left Halthak there at the top of the stairwell, sagging to the floor after being hurled against the wall.
Assuming his selection was purposeful, then, Halthak began to work back from there. He recalled Syth’s bitter words about Grelthus keeping the thief around until some use could be made of the man’s half elemental nature, and his warning that Grelthus would only have led them deep into Stronghold for the same reason, to feature somehow in his experiments. Halthak then thought of when he had healed Valkarr’s minor injury after the skirmish with the infected Wyrgens in the corridor, and Grelthus’s wide-eyed fascination with the demonstration of healing magic, and suddenly the pieces fell together. Halthak cursed himself for not seeing the obvious earlier.
Grelthus was after his healing magic.
The Wyrgen was desperate to cure his people, and was grasping at any chance to further that effort, no matter how remote that chance, and no matter the cost. He must have felt that fortune had smiled upon him at last when a strange group of intruders fell into his clutches, one of them possessing healing magic. He wanted Halthak to employ his talent now, under observation, in order to study and harness it. Halthak tested the chain of logic, and it held.
And as he looked ahead to where the chain led, he quailed inside.
Feeling the Wyrgen’s unwavering stare still upon him, Halthak closed his eyes and furrowed his brow, as if in concentration. After a few seconds he released his gathered magic, letting it dissipate, and donned what he hoped was an expression of frustration.
“I am blocked somehow,” he said, looking up at Grelthus. “My magic gathers but I cannot focus it. It might be the blow to my head, or the nearness of the Essence Fount, causing interference.”
The Wyrgen’s eyes narrowed. “Your magic worked well enough earlier, when you healed your friend. You were not hindered then by proximity to the Fount.”
“Then it must be the knock to the head. This has happened before,” Halthak lied.
Grelthus growled, and his claws twitched as his long ears folded back against his skull. “Perhaps you merely lack proper motivation.”
“I just need a few minutes for my head to clear,” the Half-Ork stammered. “Any injury now will only lead to additional delay.”
His captor eyed him, disbelief evident upon his wolf-like face. Then he relaxed, and shrugged his massive shoulders. “No matter,” he said. “We have time. I have questions to ask that will aid in my study, and so long as you are cooperative in answering them, your head can clear without interference.”
The Wyrgen sank into a crouch before him once more, elbows resting on furry knees while wickedly curved claws dangled directly in Halthak’s line of sight. This close, the thick, musky scent of the creature was almost overpowering.
“How long have you had your talent?”
“As long as I recall, so I suspect I was born with it,” Halthak answered. “I became aware of it as a child.”
“Did either of your parents possess any magical ability?”
“My mother did not,” the Half-Ork said, his jaw tightening. “I never knew my father, but I found it doubtful he had any such ability.”
The Wyrgen studied his expression, and then nodded. “What are the limits to your healing?”
“I can repair any simple injury to the body, though it might take repeated ministrations if the wounds are too severe for me to absorb at one time. There are some progressive diseases I have been unable to affect in any lasting way, and magical afflictions are often difficult or impossible to draw into myself, as they can be resistant to leaving their host.” He paused, pondering. “And the dead are entirely beyond my power,” he added after a moment.
“This is not surprising,” Grelthus said. “There must be some spark of life in your subject with which your magic can interact. You send your magic flowing into your patient, then? And it transfers the wound into you, to be healed there, as I saw earlier?”
The healer nodded.
“What of the other way?”
Halthak blinked. “I do not understand.”
“You describe a flow of magic from yourself to another, used to fetch damage. Could you instead send it? How well can you control this flow of energy?”
“You mean-you suggest-to inflict injury instead of heal?” the healer asked, brow furrowing. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“To strike at a foe, of course,” Grelthus said, his snout wrinkling to reveal the tips of his fangs.
“I have never attempted it,” Halthak whispered, aghast at the very notion. “No, I do not believe it can be done.” But even as he said it, he wondered. He recalled how it felt when the magic gathered within him, roiling and eager, and how it responded to his unspoken direction. He considered how even the tools of medicine were double-edged, how a misused scalpel was a weapon and the incorrect dose of an herb could kill instead of cure. These things and more he turned over in his mind, and he wondered.
“What if you do not recall your magic? Would it remain in the other?” the Wyrgen asked.
Halthak shook his head. “There is some current from one to the other, but it bridges between participants during the healing process, and the magic flows across this link. It is shared at that moment, not fully in one or the other. If physical contact is broken, the magic returns immediately to me by means I do not understand, its work unfinished.”
Grelthus grunted. “Perhaps. There are means by which to forcibly extract Essence from creatures, just as there are methods to prevent its return.”
Halthak felt a chill course through him at both the words and the utter indifference with which they were spoken.
The Wyrgen rose to his full height and turned away in a smooth, unhurried movement. He padded over to a low table, and began sorting through its contents. Halthak could see nothing past the creature’s broad back, but the clink of metal floated to his straining ears. When Grelthus swung to face him again, he cradled in his large paws a glinting, metallic device of strange design. It looked something like a long lance point affixed to a heavy handle, with four curved blades projecting from its base above the handle and tapering like talons back to the central shaft. A crystal globe the size of a man’s fist was embedded there amid the clutch of blades, and within that sphere a murky green radiance swirled and eddied.
“We have reached the limits of what may be learned from discourse alone, healer,” Grelthus said. His hard features were lit from beneath by the emerald glow as he started forward. “Now we must encourage your reticent healing talent to reveal itself in earnest.”
Amric knew the instant he entered the chamber that it would be much like the others, and at the same time, very much unlike them.
He tucked away the cube-key device and pushed open the now unlocked door with his free hand, noting with surprise how the door wobbled very slightly on its hinges. He slipped through into the room like a stalking leopard, one sword extended. The others followed him, fanning out into the chamber in silence. They had been exceedingly fortunate thus far, as they stole like ghosts through the winding innards of Stronghold, in that they had not yet run across any of Grelthus’s corrupted brethren. They had taken pains to guard this good fortune, using hand signals in place of conversation when possible, and speaking in hushed whispers only when it could no longer be avoided. No amount of quiet on their part, however, could mask the scent of their passage, should the wild occupants of the fortress chance across their trail.