Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,61
Halthak and Bellimar to watching the fortress for any sign of life while he and Valkarr searched the out-buildings. They found no evidence of passage by their friends, and Amric was disappointed but not surprised. This seemed a little known entrance to Stronghold and had not been indicated on Morland’s maps, which presumably were identical to those given to the Sil’ath party. If not for Bellimar’s excursion after the encounter with the bloodbeasts, Amric’s party would not have discovered this alternate route either. He wondered how many more obscured entrances could be found around the perimeter of the place, in addition to the heavily fortified main entry to which the forest road led.
The stable proved empty, as had the other satellite buildings, but it was well stocked with feed. They secured the horses there, since they would only be a hindrance within Stronghold, and they gathered at the stairs leading to the recessed entrance they had seen. Wary and watchful, they ascended the steps with Amric in the lead. At the top of the stairway, they found themselves looking into a long, high-ceilinged corridor that ended at a dark set of double doors. Amric stalked down the length of it, and the others followed, with Valkarr trailing behind like a ghost.
Up close, the towering doors shone with a dim, coppery hue, and what little light survived the length of the corridor was cast back in feeble glints from their metal surface. Looking about, Amric could see no handle, knocker or bell anywhere, so he stepped to the door and hammered his fist against it. So heavy and solid was the portal that a muffled series of thumps was all he could elicit. Drawing one of his swords, he slammed the hilt’s pommel against the door and was rewarded with hollow booming sounds, but he was still dubious it would carry deep enough into such a vast place to draw its inhabitants to the door. They waited half a minute without response, and then he repeated the maneuver. After a dozen tries, he turned away in frustration.
He was about to suggest they return to the courtyard and attempt to enter one of the lofty windows when a clicking sound spun him around. One of the doors swung outward.
Amric was tall, standing half a head above most men, but the grizzled snout that thrust past the edge of the door was another half a head above him. A long, wolf-like visage followed, with a bristling mane of unruly fur running down a neck corded thick with muscle. The creature wore only a simple tunic belted around its waist, which covered the furry, muscular form from midsection to knees. Dark, liquid eyes glared out at the visitors, taking in each in turn, and the creature’s lips peeled back from finger-length fangs.
Amric’s scalp prickled in warning as he studied the feral gleam in those eyes. Though he had never before encountered a Wyrgen, he could see the beast was powerfully built, from its heavy shoulders and barrel chest to its long, wicked talons. It was not, however, the Wyrgen’s physical presence that alarmed him. Instead it was the gamut of emotions that passed, for a fleeting moment, unguarded in its expression. He knew the Wyrgens came from wilder stock than most civilized races and might well be subject to more turbulent emotions, but still he was certain that in addition to shrewd intelligence, he had also glimpsed covetous scheming and more than a touch of madness.
“Are you real?” it asked in a rumbling, bass growl.
“As real as you are,” Amric said, surprised at the query.
The Wyrgen tilted its head to regard him through narrowed eyes before flicking its ears back, evidently finding the answer satisfactory. “Then are you mad to be here, causing a clamor and drawing attention to yourselves?” it demanded, peering back over its shoulder into the interior of the fortress.
Amric frowned, noting the tension manifest in the creature’s body language. He shared a glance with Bellimar, whose puzzled expression indicated this made no more sense to him.
“We meant no offense, friend,” the swordsman said. “We seek a party of Sil’ath warriors, and we have reason to believe they came here. In addition, the merchant Morland from Keldrin’s Landing wishes to ascertain the welfare of a friend here, a leader among your kind by the name of Grelthus.”
The Wyrgen turned its stare upon him again. “Morland does not have friends,” it snorted. “That one sees others only as tools to be used