The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept (29 page)

“You fought well, swordsman,” Syth called to him.

“And you as well, Syth,” Amric returned.

“I did not give you enough credit before
. You are as good as your lizard friend there.”

Amric inclined his head
and said, “A fine compliment, thank you.”

He swayed slightly and caught himself, hoping no one noticed
. The nearness of the Essence Fount continued to plague him, and more than once a fleeting, ill-timed instant of weakness had almost been his undoing during the battle.

“Were I a lesser fighter, or capable of fear, I would be having second thoughts
about facing you,” Syth continued in a distracted, conversational tone as he walked, his gaze directed downward. “But of course I am neither of these things. Perhaps we should have a bard present to chronicle our fight. What do you think?”

Amric shook his head in disbelief
. Syth stopped, still looking down. A low moan issued from the figure sprawled at his feet. Dropping to one knee, he dealt the Wyrgen a thunderous blow with one gauntleted fist, dispatching the creature in an instant. His eyes were hard as granite as he stood and continued to prowl the room, checking the motionless forms of their assailants.

Amric
turned and found Bellimar. The old man stood tall and straight amidst the carnage, like a slender, stately tree somehow untouched in the wake of a hurricane. His pale face was flushed and his eyes shone strangely above a tight smile, but he appeared unharmed. At one point during the battle, Amric was certain he had seen one of the beasts turn its attention to Bellimar, lurking in the corner; it had leapt toward him, powerful arms flung wide to engulf the old man. Amric had started toward him, but a multitude of Wyrgens swarmed at him just then, blocking his view and path to the old man. Even as a desperate shout to the others had gathered in his throat, however, he caught movement from the corner of his eye and found Bellimar on the other side of the room, away from the press of conflict once more. For an instant Amric had doubted his own sight, but as a Sil’ath warrior and warmaster he had developed an innate sense of what transpired in battle around him at all times. No, it was another of the old man’s mysterious tricks, then, and well timed at that.

Bellimar picked his way across the room, managing to avoid
even a drop of blood on his grey robes.

“What next, warrior?” he asked.

“Onward to the next room,” Amric replied. “Grelthus, blast his conniving hide, must be hiding in one of these chambers.”

“We
were fortunate this time,” Syth said. “Stronghold is vast, and it will take days to search just the chambers bordering the Essence Fount. We may not be so lucky in our next brush with the Wyrgens.”

“Leave if you wish,” Amric
growled. “I will not abandon Halthak in this pit of demons, even if I have to turn over every stone in the place.”

“
Perhaps we need not go to such lengths after all,” Valkarr said from his position at the ruined glass wall. He stood before a jagged aperture large enough to walk through, and he leveled one muscular arm to point at something in the amphitheater. Amric and the others joined him and peered in the direction he indicated.

Partway around the circular chamber, on the terraced balcony level just below them, was Halthak.

Made small by the distance, the healer was running for all he was worth. Amric slid his gaze along the path he had traversed and discovered the reason for his haste: the brutish figure of Grelthus surged along on all fours less than a hundred yards behind. The Wyrgen’s gait was weaving and unsteady for some reason, but he was nevertheless closing on his prey with frightening ease.

Movement on the
immense amphitheater floor drew the swordsman’s eye still further down to reveal another new threat. Score upon score of corrupted Wyrgens were flooding into the chamber, their burning gazes upturned and questing. Even as he watched, their dark forms began to swarm up the stairs leading to the next level. As the stairways clogged with the heaving mass of bodies, the enraged creatures clambered over balustrades and over the backs of their own fellows in their frenzy. Halthak and Grelthus were many levels above the floor, but he judged it would take the swelling horde no more than a handful of minutes to reach that height, given the speed of the Wyrgens.

Amric plunged through the breach and into the Fount chamber, bounding down the steps that would take him to the terrace level below even as his swords flashed into his hands.

Halthak
sprinted along the terrace, his desperate gaze fixed upon the next ramp of stairs. They were too far away yet to see if they offered any egress, but he had little choice except to try. The damnable Wyrgen had shaken off his imparted injuries with alarming speed, and now the panting snarls of pursuit grew louder with every step. Halthak heard the rasp of claws on stone almost at his heels, and he went cold as he realized he would never make it to those bleak steps before rending talons found his flesh and he was dragged down from behind.

His jaw clenched
. He had been passive in the face of violence for all of his life, accepting it as inevitable, and seeking afterward with meek resolve to repair it if the fates allowed. Not this time. No, if death sought to claim him now in the guise of this evil creature, it would find him facing his attacker and fighting on the way down. He wished for the familiar comfort of his stout, gnarled staff, but he knew as well that even were it here now in his hands, it would do little to improve his chances against such a powerful killing machine.

He
skidded to a halt and spun to meet Grelthus. Facing back the way he had come, he cursed at just how little distance he had covered since his escape. There was only a fleeting instant for self-reproach, however, before the furious mass of muscle and fur was upon him.

The
Wyrgen launched itself at him, grasping claws outstretched. Surprise momentarily displaced rage on the wolf-like visage, however, as the Half-Ork fell backward and Grelthus hurtled through the empty space above him. Lying on his back, the healer lashed out with both feet to send the Wyrgen tumbling past. Halthak could never say afterward with any certainty whether the maneuver was tactical inspiration on his part, or if instead he had fallen backward in abject terror; if he lived to retell the moment, it would doubtless depend on his audience. It bought him precious seconds, however, even if it put his pursuer between him and the stairs he sought to reach.

He
scrambled to his feet, hoping to rush past his stunned adversary, but the plan was short-lived. Shaking his great head in a rustle of thick, matted mane, Grelthus rose to all fours and glowered at Halthak once more.

“You are a troublesome creature,
Half-Ork,” Grelthus said, his eyes eerily luminous in the shifting glow of the Essence Fount. “You have more fire in you than I thought.”

“
Keep your praise,” Halthak called back. “Leave me be, and I will trouble you no more.”

The
Wyrgen’s only reply was a rumbling laugh, and he began to pace forward in a low crouch, his deep chest almost brushing the floor. The healer edged back from him.

“I will die before I yield to you, Grelthus
. You must realize that by now.”

Grelthus gave a rolling shrug of his immense shoulders as he crept forward
. “It is no matter. There are things your body can teach me, even in death. And I must admit that the baser part of my nature hungers to see your blood at the moment, healer.”

Halthak felt a chill at the creature’s hard, indifferent tone
. He wondered if all Wyrgens were so cruel, or if Grelthus had been driven to this state by solitude and what he had witnessed. He stepped to his right as the Wyrgen circled to his left. Maybe he could keep the creature talking, keep him distracted.

“I––” he began, and then Grelthus sprang at him.

He twisted back and to one side, but to no avail. The Wyrgen’s weight slammed into him, tearing him from his feet and knocking the wind from him. Halthak writhed and thrashed, but he was clasped in thick, furry arms corded with muscle, and he might as well have been a flailing child for all the effect his struggles had on his captor. Grelthus wrenched him around and threw a mighty forearm across his chest, pinning him tight and facing away, and the other hand rose to clutch at Halthak’s throat with curved talons.

“Cease your struggles,
Half-Ork,” Grelthus hissed in his ear. “Or I will rip out your throat.”

Halthak wheezed a laugh, and tightened the grip of his own hand upon the beast’s forearm to apprise the
Wyrgen of its presence there. His magic swelled within him. “Best hope for a clean kill, Grelthus, or it will be your own throat you open.”

The
Wyrgen froze. Hot, rank breath washed over the side of the Half-Ork’s face as Grelthus panted and considered.

Halthak considered as well, his mind racing
. How quickly could he bring his magic to bear, particularly if affected by so grievous an injury? Halthak himself did not know, but he meant to try. Talons tightened on Halthak’s throat, and beads of scarlet slid down his neck. Grelthus grunted as his own throat dimpled in response, and tiny rivulets of blood slicked into his fur, but he did not loosen his hold. Halthak felt the Wyrgen’s forearm tense, and he braced himself for the release that would come in one form or another.

S
uddenly a new voice intruded. “Release him, dog.”

Halthak strained his eyes to the side to see Amric and Valkarr stalking toward them along the terrace, bared steel in their fists
. Behind them trailed Bellimar, holding Halthak’s staff in one pale hand, and Syth, the strange prisoner from the cage of blue flame. The latter wore polished black gauntlets now, clenched at his sides. His clothing rippled about him in fitful swirls, and he made no attempt to mask the burning hatred in the stare he leveled at Grelthus.

“How is your ailment, swordsman?” Grelthus sneered
. “You should flee Stronghold before it claims you.”

“We have unfinished matters between us first,”
Amric said, still striding forward. “And they start with our friend you are holding there.”

“Then your arrival is well-timed, as I was about to give him a look at his own insides
. Keep your distance!”

Amric shook his head
. “I think not, Grelthus. I am close enough to cut you down like the murderous jackal that you are, if you are foolish enough to make your strike. The healer’s life is the only thing protecting yours at the moment.”

“Your kind cannot match my speed,” the
Wyrgen snarled, but Halthak could feel the great form tensing. Those dark eyes darted back and forth as Amric and Valkarr spread out to either side of him.

“We are prepared this time,” Valkarr said,
his scaly tail lashing behind him as he crouched. The Sil’ath warrior’s gaze raked over them, from the blood soaking both of their clothing and fur to the fresh spatters on the flagstones beneath them. “And you are wounded now. Unsteady.”

Grelthus bared his fangs at Valkarr in a rumbling growl.

“And,” said Amric, “even if you can escape ‘our kind’, are you so confident you can escape your own?”

The growl sputtered and died, and Halthak felt the talons twitch at his throat
. “What do you mean?”

“Your beloved people are
scaling their way up the chamber’s levels to reach you as we speak. I would wager we have no more than a minute before they arrive. We cannot spare the time to fence with words.”

Even as Amric uttered the words, however, several hunched shapes darted onto the terrace from the lower stairs, back in the direction from which he and the others had come
. Eerily silent, the corrupted Wyrgens cast about in a flurry of motion, their muzzles upturned to taste the air. Their glowing gazes fell upon the group across the arc of the balcony wall, a scant two hundred yards away, and they broke into triumphant, strident howls. The call was answered from the depths below as a sudden cacophony of savage cries filled the vast chamber.

More shapes
spilled from that distant stairwell and over the stone railing to drop into crouches on the flagstones. The creatures lunged forward into loping runs, bounding toward them.

“You were right, Grelthus,” Amric said, his lips pressed into a grim line
. “Your kind are indeed fast.”

A frantic whine escaped from between the
Wyrgen’s clenched teeth. Gazing upon the thundering horde that approached, Halthak had to agree; he felt like whimpering himself.

“Release the healer,” Amric said
. “We run or die, now.”

“You said it yourself, human,” Grelthus said, his frantic gaze flicking between the approaching
Wyrgens and the warriors surrounding him with drawn steel. “The Half-Ork’s life is the only thing that ensures mine. Else you will surely cut me down.”

“Release him,
and we can settle matters between us once we escape your people,” Amric commanded. “You cannot outpace them while wounded and carrying a captive. Release him, or we all die here.”