This explained the ravaged doors above, Amric thought. The blast that shattered the wall had channeled up the stairwell with enough force to wrench the thick metal portal from its very hinges as well as weaken even the outer door. It also explained the heightened effect of the Essence Fount upon him here, for they were directly exposed to the deadly geyser here through the breaches in the wall.
And that was not all they were exposed to here, he observed. A throng of hulking, furry forms was gathered outside the broken glass wall, their fiery eyes narrowed to hateful slits as they glared at the chamber’s occupants. Amric spat a sulfurous oath under his breath. Whether due to disastrous timing or because the unguarded conversation in the room above had carried far enough to draw them here, the corrupted Wyrgens had found them.
With glowing talons of all hues, the creatures gripped the yawning fissures in the glass wall and pulled themselves through, dropping into feral crouches and crawling forward. Amric and Valkarr both drew their second swords, and Syth flexed his sinister black gauntlets as his robes whipped about him. Bellimar withdrew into the shadows of the stairwell, folded within his cloak.
The shifting, shimmering light of the fountain reflected from bared steel in the ruined chamber as the beasts crept toward them.
CHAPTER 11
Halthak crashed to his side on the stone floor, the echoes of his last scream chasing each other throughout the chamber. Sweat and blood mingled in rivulets that slid across his face as he lay there, panting. There was a crimson tinge to the froth caking his lips as well, and he tried to muster enough saliva to clear it by spitting, but his throat was too cracked and raw. His vision dimmed dangerously at the edges, and he felt for a long, precarious moment like he was falling down a darkened well and watching the hazy light of the opening recede above him.
He fought to remain conscious. It was too soon, he thought. He was not ready yet. He drew one ragged breath after another until his vision cleared. Then, clenching his teeth, he pushed himself on shaking arms to a sitting position once more as the rope bindings bit into his wrists, and he met the furious gaze of his tormentor.
Grelthus stood a few paces away, glaring down at him, deep chest heaving like a bellows.
“What is this idiocy, healer?” he stormed. “Why endure this pain merely to thwart me?”
Halthak said nothing, striving to compose his ravaged face into a tranquil mask. In truth, he was not certain he could have answered in any case, for his tongue was swollen and dry as parchment.
The Wyrgen spun away with a curse and slammed the blood-slicked weapon down on the table with such force that the other silvery implements there leapt jangling and spinning into the air. The device itself seemed to quiver even at rest, and the inset green orb pulsed hungrily, drawing blood along the blades to vanish into its glowing surface.
Halthak felt his stomach turn with revulsion and fear as he eyed the sinister device. Beyond even the considerable damage Grelthus could inflict with the thing, it seemed to magnify pain to a level he had never before experienced. He was not sure how much longer his will could hold out against that evil instrument.
Grelthus took several deep breaths, and then turned back toward him, outwardly calm once more.
“There is no need for you to suffer so,” he said in a voice laden with concern. “Your frail form cannot take so much damage, and you will surely die if you do not repair the wounds. I ask but to observe as you employ your magic, and there need be no further pain inflicted.”
Halthak knew it for a lie the instant he heard it. He decided it deserved company.
“My staff,” he croaked. “It serves as my focus, and I require it to direct my magic. Perhaps if it was retrieved-”
“Do not toy with me! There was no affinity for magic in that object,” Grelthus said, muzzle peeling back to reveal a mouthful of teeth like daggers. “Your friends are back in that room, trapped and alive only at my whim, and I will not return there until I decide what to do with them.”
The Wyrgen dropped to all fours and stalked forward until the stink of his hot breath washed over Halthak’s face. “It is within your power to save them, healer. Give me what I want, and I will release your friends and aye, even usher them from Stronghold. What say you?”
Halthak felt a stab of temptation, but he knew full well that it was but another of the creature’s empty promises. In any event, Amric and Valkarr would never agree to depart at the cost of him remaining captive here. So the Half-Ork grinned and said, through cracked lips, “What say I? I say we postpone this conversation until I can look through a fortress window and see their backsides departing the grounds. Not that I have any reason to doubt your word, you mangy mongrel.”
The wolf-like visage twisted with rage, and though Halthak never saw the blow coming, his head rocked back with its force. To his amazement, he managed to retain both consciousness and his upright position, even if he had not the faintest notion how he accomplished either. Woozy, he marveled at the boldness of his words, more than a little shocked they had tumbled from his own mouth. It seemed that time spent around the swordsman had bolstered his courage at the cost of his manners, and perhaps his self-preservation as well.
He glanced down at his torso to assess the damage that Grelthus had done to him thus far, for he was growing too cold and numb to know by feel alone. Some detached part of his mind nagged at him that this was a bad sign in itself, but he waved it away. His robes hung in tatters, as did the flesh beneath, soaked with the blood that was forming a languid pool beneath him. The Wyrgen was truthful in one respect: these wounds would prove fatal soon, if Halthak did not act.
He blinked the sweat from his eyes and regarded his captor, careful to keep his expression neutral.
“Do you still believe your friends will find and rescue you?” Grelthus was saying. He shoved one clawed fist into a tunic pocket and pulled forth the cube device he had used to unlock interior doors in the fortress. He thrust the device before Halthak’s weary gaze, pinched between his talons. “There is no way you could know this, Half-Ork, but this is not just any key. As Stronghold’s head scientist, I was one of a very few who commanded a set of master keys which can open any door in the fortress. And that is not all.”
The Wyrgen bounded to his feet and leapt across the chamber to stand by a smooth panel on the wall. He placed the cube-key against the panel and looked at Halthak with a mad light in his eyes.
“With the master keys, I can open the viewing walls as well, exposing viewing chambers like this one to the full glory of the Essence Fount. What’s more, I can open or close them all at once from any of these panels.”
Halthak stared in horror as it dawned upon him what the creature was suggesting. Grelthus barked a horrid, cackling laugh, and wrenched the key in a savage twist against the panel. With a dull boom followed by a shuddering grumble of thunder, the glass wall in the chamber began to rise. Air hissed beneath it, and Halthak felt an eerie tingling scamper across his skin, raising bumps across his already pebbled grey flesh.
“What are you doing?” he gasped. “It will kill us both!”
“It will not affect us so quickly,” Grelthus said, taking slow strides back toward the healer. “It took several days to poison my people, to transform them into savage, mindless monsters. But we have only a few minutes, for a different reason. You see, I know from experience that the sound of the machinery required to lift the walls draws my corrupted brethren to the Fount chamber from all corners of Stronghold. They will be gathering in great numbers soon, and there may even be some lurking in there already, so we haven’t much time.”