The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept (26 page)

Awareness returned to Halthak in measured stages. First came the throbbing, like a steady, ruthless drum inside his skull. Second, as by reflex he tried to put a hand to his head, he realized his hands were bound behind him. His eyes flared open. He was lying prostrate on a stone floor, and he sighted along the cold flagstones against which his cheek was pressed. Memory began to make a grudging return as well. He recalled entering the darkened stairwell with water pitcher in hand for the prisoner Syth when a bulky silhouette hurtled up the stairs and filled his vision. He had flinched to the side in an effort to avoid the onrushing mass, but it caught him in a grasp like iron and dashed him against the wall behind him. His head struck the unforgiving granite, and the world was torn from him for a time.

H
althak surveyed his surroundings, or at least what little he was able to from his lowly vantage point. He was in another viewing chamber, with the Essence Fount’s lurid hues flickering against the stone. At first he thought it was the same chamber he had vacated, and perhaps he had fallen down the stairs, but the contents of the room told him different. The other viewing chamber had been almost empty except for Syth’s cage, and this room contained a row of smaller tables hemmed in by stacks of crates and other clutter. He could see no more from his current orientation, as he was facing a corner where the stone and glass walls met. There was a faint shimmer of reflection in the transparent material of the viewing wall, but it was not sufficient to perceive any additional detail in the room at his back.

And he would very much like to see more, as something was moving behind him in the chamber.

He listened to the shuffling sounds of movement, accompanied by bursts of low muttering. There was a pause followed by the clink of metal upon metal, and then the movement resumed. There was nothing for it, Halthak decided; he gained little by remaining in this position, pretending to be unconscious still. He needed to assess his situation, to determine where he was and how many of his companions were present. With a grunt of effort, he heaved himself to a sitting position and fought back a wave of dizziness.

The muttering stopped.

“Excellent, you are awake,” said a deep, guttural voice. “We can begin.”

The world swam into focus, and Halthak found himself staring into the dark, liquid eyes of
Grelthus, as the Wyrgen sank into a crouch before him. A quick scan of the room showed that he was alone with his captor; it also revealed a chamber with a much more functional arrangement than the other viewing chamber had evinced. Several tables were large enough for a man to lie upon, and thick leather straps sprouting from their surfaces confirmed their dark purpose. Interspersed with these were smaller tables, replete with metal implements of various sinister designs. A cylindrical device squatted at the center of the room, rising almost to the ceiling. It bulged outward at its middle, coursing with strange energy, and shiny black cables snaked from it to various points within the room. Looking upon it, Halthak was struck by the impression of some great nest of wasps, teeming inside with obscene life.

Grelthus continued to watch him as he examined the chamber, and the
Wyrgen’s muzzle began a slow nod as grim realization stole over the Half-Ork.

“Yes, you
are apprised of your situation now,” Grelthus said. “We will not be disturbed here.”

“Where are my companions?” Halthak demanded
. “Have you harmed them?”

The
Wyrgen’s grizzled head tilted to the side, and one tufted ear twitched. He lashed out with one powerful arm in a blur of motion. Halthak found himself on his back, his head ringing from the blow, and the stinging wetness of his own blood running down the side of his face. He blinked a few times and drew in ragged breaths until his vision cleared. Then, with a laborious combination of levering his bound arms and squirming, he sat up again. Grelthus still crouched before him, impassive expression unchanged.

“This will be a conversation only in the sense that I will ask questions and you will answer them,” the
Wyrgen rumbled. “It is best that you learn this lesson quickly, for we have much to do.”

Halthak said nothing
, glaring at the creature. Blood trickled down his whiskered jaw and into the neck of his robes. Grelthus nodded and stood, towering over him, and waved one clawed hand in a permissive gesture.

“Good, then we have an understanding
. You may heal yourself now, and we will begin again.”

Halthak began to do just that
; he reached for his magic and was rewarded by its ready surge, an invigorating suffusion of warmth spreading through him. Ridding himself of the infernal pounding ache in his head would enable him to think more clearly, and he would need his wits about him if he hoped to escape the Wyrgen and rejoin his companions. But then, as he was on the verge of directing the gathered healing energy with a familiar effort of will, some instinct made him pause. He could feel the weight of the Wyrgen’s gaze upon him still, burning in its intensity, and that very eagerness nagged at him. His addled thoughts congealed into suspicions and struggled to chain together.

Grelthus had
isolated him from the others by sending him for the water pitcher while ostensibly remaining under guard in the chamber below. Rather than escape alone, the Wyrgen had instead assaulted him and brought him to this new room, unconscious and bound. If his captor’s words were to be believed, the healer was now beyond rescue, and the Wyrgen had plans for him. Upon finding himself captive, Halthak had at first seen himself as the only viable choice; the warriors were far too skilled in combat to subdue easily, and there was something mysterious and unsettling about Bellimar that made him a less likely choice as well, despite his apparent age.

That left Halthak as the most vulnerable
. But why take a hostage at all? Grelthus could have used his superior knowledge of Stronghold’s labyrinthine layout to evade pursuit and leave them all behind, trapped and lost. For that matter, why draw them deep into the heart of Stronghold in the first place? If his goal from the beginning had been to see them slain, he could have left them to the tender mercies of his corrupted brethren without ever so much as showing himself.

It followed then that Grelthus
had thought to make use of them in some way, and now wanted something from Halthak. Admittedly, the conversation could have become adversarial after Halthak left the room to fetch the pitcher, but he had heard no sounds of conflict from below, no voices raised in heated exchange. And if the Wyrgen had meant to trap them all in the chamber below, he could have left Halthak there at the top of the stairwell, sagging to the floor after being hurled against the wall.

Assuming his selection was purposeful,
then, Halthak began to work back from there. He recalled Syth’s bitter words about Grelthus keeping the thief around until some use could be made of the man’s half elemental nature, and his warning that Grelthus would only have led them deep into Stronghold for the same reason, to feature somehow in his experiments. Halthak then thought of when he had healed Valkarr’s minor injury after the skirmish with the infected Wyrgens in the corridor, and Grelthus’s wide-eyed fascination with the demonstration of healing magic, and suddenly the pieces fell together. Halthak cursed himself for not seeing the obvious earlier.

Grelthus was after
his healing magic.

The
Wyrgen was desperate to cure his people, and was grasping at any chance to further that effort, no matter how remote that chance, and no matter the cost. He must have felt that fortune had smiled upon him at last when a strange group of intruders fell into his clutches, one of them possessing healing magic. He wanted Halthak to employ his talent now, under observation, in order to study and harness it. Halthak tested the chain of logic, and it held.

And
as he looked ahead to where the chain led, he quailed inside.

Feeling the
Wyrgen’s unwavering stare still upon him, Halthak closed his eyes and furrowed his brow, as if in concentration. After a few seconds he released his gathered magic, letting it dissipate, and donned what he hoped was an expression of frustration.

“I am
blocked somehow,” he said, looking up at Grelthus. “My magic gathers but I cannot focus it. It might be the blow to my head, or the nearness of the Essence Fount, causing interference.”

The
Wyrgen’s eyes narrowed. “Your magic worked well enough earlier, when you healed your friend. You were not hindered then by proximity to the Fount.”

“Then it must be the knock to the head
. This has happened before,” Halthak lied.

Grelthus growled,
and his claws twitched as his long ears folded back against his skull. “Perhaps you merely lack proper motivation.”

“I just need a few
minutes for my head to clear,” the Half-Ork stammered. “Any injury now will only lead to additional delay.”

His captor
eyed him, disbelief evident upon his wolf-like face. Then he relaxed, and shrugged his massive shoulders. “No matter,” he said. “We have time. I have questions to ask that will aid in my study, and so long as you are cooperative in answering them, your head can clear without interference.”

The
Wyrgen sank into a crouch before him once more, elbows resting on furry knees while wickedly curved claws dangled directly in Halthak’s line of sight. This close, the thick, musky scent of the creature was almost overpowering.

“How long have you had your talent?”

“As long as I recall, so I suspect I was born with it,” Halthak answered. “I became aware of it as a child.”

“Did either of your parents possess any magical ability?”

“My mother did not,” the Half-Ork said, his jaw tightening. “I never knew my father, but I found it doubtful he had any such ability.”

The
Wyrgen studied his expression, and then nodded. “What are the limits to your healing?”

“I can
repair any simple injury to the body, though it might take repeated ministrations if the wounds are too severe for me to absorb at one time. There are some progressive diseases I have been unable to affect in any lasting way, and magical afflictions are often difficult or impossible to draw into myself, as they can be resistant to leaving their host.” He paused, pondering. “And the dead are entirely beyond my power,” he added after a moment.

“This is not surprising,” Grelthus said
. “There must be some spark of life in your subject with which your magic can interact. You send your magic flowing into your patient, then? And it transfers the wound into you, to be healed there, as I saw earlier?”

The healer
nodded.

“What of the other way?”

Halthak blinked. “I do not understand.”

“You describe a flow of magic from
yourself to another, used to fetch damage. Could you instead send it? How well can you control this flow of energy?”

“You mean
––you suggest––to inflict injury instead of heal?” the healer asked, brow furrowing. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“To strike at a foe, of course,” Grelthus said
, his snout wrinkling to reveal the tips of his fangs.

“I have never attempted it,” Halthak whispered, aghast at the very notion
. “No, I do not believe it can be done.” But even as he said it, he wondered. He recalled how it felt when the magic gathered within him, roiling and eager, and how it responded to his unspoken direction. He considered how even the tools of medicine were double-edged, how a misused scalpel was a weapon and the incorrect dose of an herb could kill instead of cure. These things and more he turned over in his mind, and he wondered.

“What if you do not recall your magic
? Would it remain in the other?” the Wyrgen asked.

Halthak shook his head
. “There is some current from one to the other, but it bridges between participants during the healing process, and the magic flows across this link. It is shared at that moment, not fully in one or the other. If physical contact is broken, the magic returns immediately to me by means I do not understand, its work unfinished.”

Grelthus
grunted. “Perhaps. There are means by which to forcibly extract Essence from creatures, just as there are methods to prevent its return.”

Halthak felt a chill course through him
at both the words and the utter indifference with which they were spoken.

The
Wyrgen rose to his full height and turned away in a smooth, unhurried movement. He padded over to a low table, and began sorting through its contents. Halthak could see nothing past the creature’s broad back, but the clink of metal floated to his straining ears. When Grelthus swung to face him again, he cradled in his large paws a glinting, metallic device of strange design. It looked something like a long lance point affixed to a heavy handle, with four curved blades projecting from its base above the handle and tapering like talons back to the central shaft. A crystal globe the size of a man’s fist was embedded there amid the clutch of blades, and within that sphere a murky green radiance swirled and eddied.

“
We have reached the limits of what may be learned from discourse alone, healer,” Grelthus said. His hard features were lit from beneath by the emerald glow as he started forward. “Now we must encourage your reticent healing talent to reveal itself in earnest.”