“W-why did you open it?” Halthak said.
“You would have me believe that the Fount’s proximity is somehow inhibiting your magic,” Grelthus sneered. “But I know that for a lie. The Essence Fount is magic at its most primal. It does not counteract other magic, but rather amplifies it, draws it out, sings to it with inexorable power. In its presence, you could perform feats with your inherent talents which have always before been beyond your reach. It is my theory that your magic will rise to the surface as you are bathed in the Fount’s direct radiance, despite your continued attempts to suppress it.”
Halthak swallowed. He felt nothing of the sort yet, but the Wyrgen’s cold conviction was unnerving. “And if this theory of yours proves false? Are we to be torn limb from limb by your people?”
Grelthus chuckled, a dark and ugly sound. “You should realize by now, Half-Ork, that my ingenuity knows no limits. If you do not employ your healing magic with all due haste, I shall lower our viewing wall here and raise all the others. Your trapped friends will lose the only protective barrier between them and the hundreds of slavering, enraged Wyrgens who will have gathered by then.”
The Wyrgen reached down with one long, powerful arm and lifted the cruel, many-bladed device once more from the table. Halthak choked back an involuntary babble of terror before it could escape his throat. He noted with a chill how its glowing green orb and gleaming metal were now clean and free of even a speck of blood; the thing had somehow drank up all that had coated its surface. Grelthus hefted the weapon before him, patting it as he would a cherished pet.
“The cost of your petty defiance will only continue to rise,” he said. “Will you be the instrument of demise for your friends, merely to stall the inevitable for a few minutes more?”
Halthak met his bleak stare for a long moment, then his shoulders sagged and he hung his head. He shifted his arms, still crossed behind his back, ignoring the protests of his aching shoulders and chafed wrists. He had no way of knowing how the exposure to the fiery geyser would affect what he was about to do, but he was out of time and out of options. With a mild effort of will, he brought his magic surging forth, invigorating his shaking body with welcome warmth and a brisk jolt of energy.
“Yes, yes!” Grelthus murmured, shuffling forward a pace. “That’s it, healer. Magnificent!”
Halthak ignored the Wyrgen, gathering what he needed and then more, continuing to draw upon it until his very veins were afire. His magic filled him to the point of bursting, roiling within like a storm-tossed sea, anticipating his bidding.
And there he held it, pent up behind his will, denying it release.
“Why do you hesitate, healer?” Grelthus demanded, his tone hardening into a harsh snarl.
The Half-Ork continued to slouch there with his head hung low and sweat dripping from his lank, wispy hair. He shook his head back and forth, over and over, repeating something in a mumbling whisper.
“Speak up, fool! What are you babbling about?” Grelthus said as he threw an uneasy glance past the open glass wall and into the vast amphitheater beyond. “We do not have much time, healer. No time for games, if you wish to save yourself, or your friends.”
Halthak’s head began a vigorous nodding, and his slumped shoulders shook with what might have been laughter. He continued to whisper as his magic flared within him, swirling but contained.
Grelthus spat an oath and dropped to all fours, stalking forward until his bared fangs were no more than a hand’s breadth from the face of his captive.
“What are you saying, damn you?” Grelthus snarled. He reached out and, with one huge fist, seized the healer’s unruly shock of hair and jerked his hanging head back into an upright position.
Halthak lunged forward like a striking snake, using all the strength remaining in his battered body. His arms, trailing frayed and parted ropes, whipped around to slap clawed hands to the sides of the Wyrgen’s shaggy head. His long nails dug into fur and flesh there, holding the startled creature fast.
“I said I have claws too, Grelthus,” Halthak hissed into his face, and he sent his magic slamming into the Wyrgen.
He had been anxious about this part, as he planned this desperate gambit. Grelthus’s own question about directing the flow of his magic had planted the suggestion, and a seed of wild hope had sprouted. Parting the ropes that bound him had been a laborious process, in part because it had been challenging at first to bring his claws to bear and in part because he had been forced to proceed at a snail’s pace to avoid arousing suspicion. Even as the mundane first step of his scheme proved achievable, however, doubts had assailed him about the next stage.
He had only ever used his talent to heal, to form a brief symbiotic connection with another living creature and draw away its hurt. What if his magic found the notion of inflicting damage as repugnant as he did, and would not obey him? What if he could not figure out how to direct it in this way before Grelthus overcame his moment of astonishment and tore away from his weakened grasp?
These misgivings and more vanished in the first instant of contact, burned to cinders by the flood of his released magic.
Just as countless times before, his talent leapt at his bidding, flowing and bridging into Grelthus. The Wyrgen stiffened as the unfamiliar sensation filled him in a sudden burst. Halthak’s many wounds began to disappear; bruises lightened and vanished, cuts sealed over like wet clay being molded by some invisible hand. He felt the ache of knitting bone and the itch of new skin nipped by the air. His labored breathing eased, and strength coursed through his limbs once more.
Even as all the wounds faded from Halthak, they appeared on Grelthus. The creature’s lips split and oozed blood. His eyes glassed over, seeming to sink into his skull. The massive frame gave a violent shudder at an appalling cracking noise. Several ripping sounds followed, like the tearing of wet cloth, and scarlet spattered to the flagstones. At once sickened and fascinated, the healer watched the entire transformation. A rumbling moan rattled in the Wyrgen’s throat, and he sagged in Halthak’s grasp.
Halthak released his hold and let the body crash to the floor, where the Wyrgen writhed in pain. Rolling to his feet, he swiftly moved to kneel at the creature’s side, where he dug at the thick fabric of the tunic in a frantic search for the cube-key device. Grelthus groaned and twisted, sweeping a claw at him, and he was forced to scramble clear. The Wyrgen had a stronger constitution, and the initial shock of his transferred injuries was wearing off all too quickly. Already Halthak could see the rolling eyes coming into focus and fixing upon him with a wild glare that promised retribution.
He eyed the many-bladed weapon on the table, its soft green glow seeming to pulse a dark invitation to him as his gaze fell upon it, and for a fleeting moment he considered trying to use it to stun or slay the Wyrgen. He was loath to slay, however, and he was no warrior besides. And Grelthus was recovering his wits, gathering his strength, his powerful back and shoulders bunching with muscle as he strove to push himself up from the floor. Halthak had witnessed the terrible speed and savagery of the beasts in combat, and he knew he had little chance if he came within reach of those killing claws.
The healer turned his attention to the raised glass wall and the cavernous amphitheater beyond. A broad set of stairs began at the lip of the viewing chamber, descending to a terrace level below. He had hoped to obtain the cube device in his escape, but there was nothing for it now. His best hope was to find an unlocked door in the amphitheater before the place filled with corrupted Wyrgens or the Fount struck him down, and then find a way to free his trapped friends. He knew it to be a slim hope at best, but at the moment he would take almost any shift in circumstance. If he could just find the others, they would know what to do next.