The thief looked away and gave a slow shrug, picking at food between his back teeth with one fingernail. “You will have to deal with Morland at some point, or be forever looking over your shoulder,” he said. “I might like to be there to have my say as well.”
“Regrettably, we do not have an extra mount for you,” Amric said, studying the man. “However, we will already be taking a slower pace to accommodate our wounded. We can rotate doubled-up riders among the stronger steeds for some stretches, and walk through others.”
“I appreciate the thought, but I can travel on foot faster than most men,” Syth remarked as he stifled a yawn. “Besides, horses and I have reached an understanding in the past: neither of us will attempt to ride the other, except in the most unusual of circumstances.”
Amric smiled and stood, wincing as he did so. He stepped away from the fire, his attention once more upon the brooding shadow of Stronghold in the distance.
“You should have allowed the Half-Ork to heal you,” Bellimar reminded him.
The swordsman realized he was scratching at his crude cloth strip bandages again, and he let his hand drop. “Nothing more than minor cuts and bruises. They can wait, or heal on their own. In any event, you saw him. Any more strain would have done the poor fellow in.” He glanced back. “Thank you again for your aid in treating and bandaging my wounds.”
Bellimar inclined his head. There was a pause, and then, “Have you felt it again, since?”
There was no need to guess what the old man meant. “No. Not since it left me, just after Halthak saved Valkarr and they both fell unconscious. And my aura?”
“Undetectable to my Sight, as before,” Bellimar replied.
Amric exhaled in relief. He recalled the moment in the viewing chamber, when the threat of the Wyrgens had passed and he had turned his attention inward to confront the alien presence that had invaded him. Revulsion and fear swept through him at the thought of becoming corrupted like the Wyrgens, or being fused forever with this burning torrent of magic, unable to force the powerful spirit from him. Its mysterious intervention had saved their lives, he had to admit, and he had sensed nothing malicious about its intent save for a white-hot rage toward their enemies. It had guided him, and yet he had still felt in control of his actions. He supposed that was the insidious allure of such power at work, and one never truly realized loss of self until it was too late to turn back.
A lifetime’s aversion to magic had flared then, and he searched for the thing within him, braced to battle for his very soul. There was nothing to contest against in the end, however; a fleeting instant of contact, a tentative brush against his senses, and then it had faded and vanished before his loathing like the early morning mist burned away by the new sun. He was left weary to the bone and wondering if he was truly alone in his flesh once more.
Even though no hint of it had resurfaced in the many hours since, he found himself compulsively focusing inward every so often, dreading its return.
“Do you still believe you were possessed by the Essence Fount?” Bellimar asked.
“Of course,” Amric said, frowning. “What alternative is there?”
When Bellimar did not respond, he swung around to face him. The old man’s eyes caught and held the lurid glow of the fire as he studied Amric.
“Out with it, man,” the swordsman demanded. “Share your theories.”
But Bellimar shook his head. “I do not have an explanation yet that would hold up to scrutiny, but there are some theories I can refute.”
“Go on,” Amric said, his eyes narrowing.
“Well,” Bellimar began, seeming to choose his words with care, “the Essence Fount is not a sentient thing, capable of an intrusive manifestation like you describe. It is a pure force of nature, more akin to a tidal wave or forest fire than to a living creature. Its power can harm or even consume those near it, and it might be tapped or directed somehow, but it has no will behind it.”
“You know that I have neither affinity for magic nor desire to work it,” Amric objected. “I could not have done what I did without something providing the power, and guiding my hand as well. And you said my aura became bright as the sun while I was under its influence.”
“I know all this, and yet it could not have been the Fount. It could certainly have affected you over time, changed or sickened you. But it could not come to your aid and then depart as you describe. It possesses no more intelligence than an avalanche, or a tornado.”
A sudden gust of wind raked over them, dragging at the flames of the campfire. Both men turned to see a broad grin creasing Syth’s face.
“You make your point, thief,” Bellimar said with a rueful chuckle. “I am referring to common such phenomena, however. And elementals are not capable of possession either, to my knowledge.”
Syth shrugged. “If not the Fount itself, then what?”
“That I do not know,” the old man said, his expression pensive.
“And what of the rage I felt from it?” Amric put in. “I thought perhaps it was the Fount, furious at the violation of the Wyrgens, seeking some way to retaliate.”
Bellimar snorted. “If that was the case, it was already having its revenge in small steps, robbing the surviving offenders first of their intellects and later, I suspect, of their lives. If a force of that magnitude were backed by intent, I doubt it would have needed agents as insignificant as us. No, the phenomenon coincided with your anguish and need. Are you certain it was not merely your own anger you felt, at seeing your friend fall?”
The warrior shook his head, staring into the fire as the memories of those chaotic moments tumbled past. “Whatever it was, it brought its own. It was separate and distinct until I accepted its help, and then it added its fury to mine. We became somehow fused, joined in purpose for a time.”
“I can think of many creatures capable of possession,” Bellimar said, his eyes boring into the warrior. “But few would wait on your acceptance while you were so vulnerable, and none would so easily relinquish control afterward.”
Amric blew out a breath. “I suppose I can live with the mystery, so long as it is gone now, and gone for good.” He met the old man’s unwavering gaze. “After all, that was not the only unexpected thing to happen back there in the fortress.”
A tight smile spread across Bellimar’s face. “Is there something you wish to ask me, swordsman?”
The fire snapped and popped as the two men stared at each other, and Syth’s eyes flicked between them as the silence stretched out and became brittle.
“There are many questions I would ask of you, Bellimar,” said Amric at last. “But only one of import, at least until we are clear of this foul wilderness.”
“Ask it, then.”
“Are you with us?” the warrior said in a tone edged with steel. He held up a hand to forestall a reply. “A moment, before you answer. No playing at words, no evasion. There is no doubt that your actions saved us in Stronghold, but in the past two days I have had all the treachery I can stomach. The truth of what you are and what you seek can wait, but if you mean any of us harm, I would know it now. I will have your commitment, or we part company tonight. Are you with us, and for us, until we reach the city?”
Bellimar gave a solemn nod. “A fair question,” he said. “I mean no harm to anyone here. I am with you, and for you, until the city and beyond.”
Amric regarded him over the fire. “Good enough, for tonight,” he said. “I will take the first watch.”
With that, he turned and disappeared into the night. Bellimar watched him go with an unreadable expression, and Syth in turn watched the old man. For once the thief seemed without comment.
The fire crackled and danced merrily, oblivious to the troubles of men.
Syth sat cross-legged in the darkness, twisting a long blade of grass between his fingers. He savored the feel of it sliding against his bare skin. His eyes darted from time to time to the black outline of his gauntlets lying on the ground beside him, but he resisted the urge to don them.