He considered for a moment whether he would prefer to remain here as the end approached or return empty-handed again, and the sting of a chill sweat broke out on his brow. It must not come to that.
The black-robed man climbed broad steps and stepped onto the sweeping terrace level that girded the imposing front of the fortress. He knelt there, placing one splayed hand upon the stone beneath his feet. The pain of this place ran very deep, like black rot devouring the heart of a great tree all the way down to its roots. It went down well into the earth. Those fingers of corruption had found fire there in the very veins of the world, and even that cleansing flame had not been sufficient to scour this place of its disease. He was always mesmerized at the ways in which primal essence could twist the weakness of flesh and structure both, seizing that which was thought buried and bringing it unwilling to the fore, quickening it in impossible, exquisite agony.
He found the signature of the one he sought, of course, a blazing brand smoking against a still quivering hide. From there, however, the signs tapered off again, albeit slowly, as if that other had been almost reluctant to resume masking himself.
The man rose to his feet once more. If he could trace his quarry’s steps, he might well be able to discern a faint auric trail, and then it was but a matter of time. Few enough could mask this much power effectively, and fewer still could hide thus from a trained tracker such as he. Yes, it would be but a matter of time, now.
He strode toward the immense marble arch that marked the imposing front entrance to Stronghold. The metal doors cast back dull gleams from within the shadows of the archway, as if the fortress itself bared its teeth at his presence. He began to draw in power, a predator’s grin stretching tight across his face. It was time to give a polite knock.
Amric pushed away the empty plate and drained the last of the mug of ale. Beside him, Valkarr tore into a third heaping plate of food with feverish abandon, shoveling each new bite between wedge-shaped jaws as if his meal would evaporate before him at any moment. Amric smiled, feeling a wash of relief. It was the most enthusiasm his old friend had shown since he had nearly perished in Stronghold, and though his hands still shook slightly with each rapid movement, it was still a good sign that his recovery was gaining momentum. And he had to admit, whatever else one might say about the Sleeping Boar inn and its gruff owner, the Duergar Olekk, it served food of surpassing quality.
He glanced around to the others at the table, and burst out laughing. Halthak, Syth and Thalya, having finished their own meals, were staring at the ravenous Sil’ath warrior with wide eyes, and their expressions ranged from incredulous to appalled. The healer had been explicit that Valkarr’s body would require a great deal of extra rest and nourishment to replenish the enormous amount of energy taken from it by such an intense healing. Although Amric had long ceased to marvel at the ability of the Sil’ath to gorge themselves and then go without sustenance for much longer than a human could, he sometimes forgot that not everyone had grown up with it.
His laughter elicited a gimlet-eyed glower from the Traug, but at least the hulking creature managed not to growl at him as when he had walked through the door an hour before. Evidently forgiveness would be a long time in coming for his baring steel against the Elvaren within the confines of the inn. He gave the Traug a cheery wave, and earned in return a curl of thick upper lip that bared a jagged row of teeth. Amric chuckled.
“Winning hearts and minds wherever you go, eh, swordsman?” Syth asked with a grin.
Amric shrugged. “Mayhap all this road dust is inhibiting my natural charm.”
“Mayhap there is nothing beneath that road dust except more of it,” Thalya said with a snort. “Speaking on behalf of all fellow occupants of the room, when will you be taking that bath you mentioned?”
Amric flashed her a rogue’s grin. “Soon enough,” he said. “There is one more odious task left to complete the evening, and then soft bed and hot bath can duel for my attention. Ah, here we are, then.”
Thalya turned to follow his stare and stiffened in her seat. Bellimar had appeared at the inn’s front door, his gaze sliding around the crowded common room before he entered. As he glided toward them, Amric noted how the patrons sitting at the tables to either side of his path unconsciously leaned away from his passing presence. The warrior shook his head. He had known from that first meeting that there was something unusual about the old man, but he had attributed it to the fellow’s past association with sorcery. Little had he suspected at the time that his wildest suspicions would prove but pale wisps next to the truth of Bellimar’s nature. He recalled the reluctance with which he had decided to endure the man’s company as a necessary evil, tainted by his history of magic as he was. Since then, it seemed as if every step of the journey had been steeped in magic from all sides, and Bellimar had somehow proven to be the least of it so far despite his dark origins. Amric gave an inward sigh; he was not certain whether to be pleased or alarmed at having made such personal strides against his aversion. In a land increasingly ravaged by magic, he could not afford to be paralyzed by its proximity if he was to succeed in his mission. Still, it was discomfiting to realize he was becoming more accustomed to such forces than he would ever have thought possible.
Bellimar reached their table and slid into an empty oaken chair with a perfunctory nod to everyone. If he took note of the huntress’s hateful stare, he gave no outward sign. The serving girl passed by, giving Bellimar a questioning look, but he responded only with a warm smile, ordering no food. Amric recalled the untouched meal sitting before the old man when they first met, and realized there was little need for further pretense on such matters now, with this group.
“My contacts report that no other Sil’ath have been observed entering or leaving the city since our departure,” he told Amric. “This includes the harbor as well as the gates, though it is getting increasingly difficult to monitor the traffic at the quays. The number of people desperate to secure any available passage away from Keldrin’s Landing has increased greatly in the wake of last night’s attack. My contacts will remain vigilant, however. They will raise your name to any Sil’ath sighted, as you have requested.”
Amric nodded his gratitude, disappointed but not surprised. He knew by this point that his friends would not be so easily found. “And the other matter?”
“It is arranged,” Bellimar replied. “Morland is waiting for us.”
“You mean to return to that serpent’s lair?” Halthak blurted.
“I mean to keep my word,” Amric said. “We would not have found Stronghold so easily without his maps, and he put us on the right trail, even if not out of altruism. I will pay his price by delivering news of Grelthus’s fate, though doubtless he will not be pleased by the outcome. We shall see if the serpent then keeps his word and lifts the price on our heads.”
Valkarr sat back from his empty plate, drawing one forearm across his mouth. “I am ready,” he announced with a belch.