He dropped to his seat upon the high parapet and waited, his eyes closed and his mind searching far away. Patience was the key.
Amric stalked down the crude stairs, and the gloom of the cavern closed over him like dark waters over a sinking stone. Bellimar followed a few paces behind him, a cold, soundless presence at his back. More twisting stairways ran like veins down the interior wall of the great chamber. On three of them, the other Sil’ath warriors mirrored his progress.
He did not glance up; he had to trust that Thalya, Syth and Halthak were following his orders and staying out of sight as well as possible. Given the way the creature’s narrowed gaze remained riveted upon his every step, it seemed unlikely she was even aware yet of their presence up top. Amric smiled in grim satisfaction. If things became chaotic down in the chamber, Thalya’s skill with the bow could prove useful from her high perch. By her own admission, her normal arrows had proven ineffective when she was attacked by the black creatures, but she still had two of her ensorcelled arrows remaining. Halthak and Syth were charged with watching the surrounding dunes for an ambush, and with protecting the huntress if they came to grips with returning black creatures. Syth had uttered weak protestations at having to remain behind, but from the sidelong glances he stole at Thalya, it was evident that he was relieved to have an excuse to remain with her.
The plan was a simple one. The fiend had fixated upon Amric, and evidently she thought he was something he was not. Perhaps she attributed to him the strange tremor that had shaken the hive and given away their presence. Regardless, whatever manner of creature an Adept was and whatever had caused her to label him as one, it seemed a sufficient threat to force a grudging degree of fear or respect from her. He knew an opening when he saw it. He would keep her attention focused upon him, then, long enough for the others to secure the release of the prisoners. What would transpire after that was anyone’s guess, and might well depend on how convincing he was in his assumed role.
It was a dangerous game he was playing, he knew. He had to be convincing as something about which he had not a shred of information, and somehow manage to get both the prisoners and his warriors out of here alive. For a brief window of opportunity, however, the monstrosity was without her army of minions and had even dismissed those closest to her. At any other time it would require a much larger force to have a hope of successfully assaulting this place. He glanced at the prisoners, huddled and sprawled in the shadows. For these men, and perhaps for his own missing warriors as well, it had to be now. He tried not to think about the fact that he had not caught a glimpse of a Sil’ath among their numbers. The light was poor, and hope was not yet lost.
His gaze drifted to the nondescript shapes submerged in the viscous pools of green fluid, and he dragged it back to the creature at the center of the chamber.
Concentrate on the task at hand, he chided himself. Free the living before thinking to avenge the dead.
“Name yourself, Adept,” the towering creature called up to him in a grating tone. “We would know our enemy.”
It was confirmation that she viewed an Adept as an enemy, at least. His mind raced. Would she recognize a false name? And who else did she include in we?
“Names hold power, foul one,” he shouted back. “You may continue to call me Adept for now.”
She hissed and shifted in her stand, but gave no sign that she found his response suspect.
“What of you?” he asked. “By what name would you be known?”
“Nar’ath queens have no name,” she spat. “Only purpose.”
Nar’ath? He frowned at the term, even as he heard a soft intake of breath from Bellimar behind him. He glanced back at the old man.
“Nar’ath means ‘of the sands’,” Bellimar whispered. “Just as Sil’ath means ‘of the scales’, very loosely translated. Both names come from a tongue long lost to this world, and it implies these creatures have chosen a name from another time, or were given it very long ago.” He stared at the creature below. “It implies they may not be new to this world after all.”
Despite the low pitch of his voice, the Nar’ath queen overheard him.
“This fleshling speaks true,” she said with an odd mingling of anger and pride in her voice. “But of course the Adept knows this already, for it was his kind that named us. A dismissive, scornful name it was meant to be, given in arrogance. But still we have kept it all this time, and we have made it our own. We have grown strong, and you will not dismiss us again.”
The queen watched him with an air of expectancy, but he did not know what reply to make and so made none rather than risk giving himself away. She hissed in dissatisfaction, grasping with long black claws at the stone formed about her. Amric heard a grating noise from within that enclosure, and he wondered at the size and shape of the concealed portion of her form. From the harsh, heavy nature of the sounds, he guessed that there was more of her hidden than showing.
He reached the bottom step and his boot heel sank slightly into the firm sand of the cavern floor. He strode toward her, his manner confident and unhurried, hoping to emulate the being that was fearsome enough to give her pause. Without glancing aside, he was aware of the others stealing like shadows around the edge of the room. The queen paid them no heed, as if they were utterly beneath her notice. Instead she continued to track him and him alone, her alien features an expressionless mask, her eyes a simmering green.
He stopped at the outer edge of one of the pools and looked down. The waters gave off a soft, pulsing glow that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere. It was impossible to tell the depth of the pool, as it was packed near to overflowing with tightly wrapped bodies. Some unseen current tugged at those cocooned forms, rippling the top of the pool as the pods rolled and churned beneath the surface. The sickly green glow peeked through gaps in the moving clusters, cupping them with spectral, possessive fingers of light. It was a disorienting display, a sinister and graceful dance in slow motion.
Amric’s stomach turned as he realized that not all the motion came from the current. Some of the shapes were writhing and straining against their bonds. He fought the urge to draw his sword and cut the folds of cloth-like material. Grim instinct warned him that he was not witnessing natural creatures struggling to survive, but rather the awakening of new fiends, subservient to the queen.
“Cunning Adept,” the Nar’ath queen murmured, breaking the brief silence. “Have you come to make me pay for my overconfidence in sending forth nearly all of my forces?”
Amric noted her change in reference from plural to individual; another oddity that would hopefully become clear soon.
“Perhaps,” Amric replied with a noncommittal shrug. He began a slow circuit of the chamber, circling her from outside the pools. “For now, I am more interested in discussion. For example, I wonder at why you would leave yourself so exposed. What goal could be worth the risk to one such as you?”
“What risk was there?” she sneered. “The fleshlings of this world are weak, and they wield weak magics as well. They are divided and fearful, huddled in their walled city, oblivious to the wracking cries of the land. Oblivious to our presence and to the true threat against their world as well. There is nothing we need fear from these trifling creatures.”