Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,64

in thunderous descending strokes on the thick, outstretched necks. The Wyrgens crashed to the flagstones without another sound, the momentum of their charge carrying them several yards further in a tumbling slide that ended at Halthak’s feet. The healer looked down, saucer-eyed, clutching his staff before him with shaking hands. A spreading pool of crimson welled beneath the great, shaggy forms, their heads all but severed. Even in death, their clenched talons and staring eyes smoldered with sinister potency.

Amric looked down. He had felt a slight tug at his oiled mail shirt as his blue-clawed attacker passed, and he was astonished to find the burnished links neatly parted in a long gash, the edges of the incision encased in frost that was already melting in the warm air. He had been prepared and had moved with lightning swiftness, but still the creature had not only come within a fraction of an inch of drawing his blood, but had cut through Sil’ath-crafted mail armor with appalling ease. He inspected Valkarr, and found a similar score upon his friend’s scaly hide, slanting across his ribs, from his own scarlet-eyed assailant. That mark was blackened as if by fire, and blood oozed from the wound. Valkarr, of course, behaved as if the injury was utterly beneath notice. Using the tip of one sword, Amric lifted the heavy paw of one of the slain Wyrgens, tilting the appendage this way and that to study the wisps of scarlet flame surrounding the hooked nails.

“What do you make of it?” he asked, glancing at Bellimar.

The old man glided forward, his cheeks flushed and his eyes fever bright in a face that otherwise looked even more drawn and pale than usual. He stared at the fallen beasts for a long moment, seeming transfixed by the scene.

“Fascinating,” Bellimar said at last. “I cannot say for certain, but I would hazard a guess that they are infected by some primal force of magic. These individuals appear to have been affected with different elemental symptoms, but otherwise have both regressed to a more savage aspect. The Wyrgens rose above their primitive origins centuries ago, and they bear a strong repugnance now for that part of their heritage. I find it unlikely that any would voluntarily return to this base behavior.”

“Perhaps they are not Wyrgens?” Valkarr asked, cocking his head to the side as he studied the bodies.

Amric nodded. “We are not familiar with the Wyrgen races. Could it be these are not Wyrgens at all, and Stronghold has been overrun by a less civilized strain of the Wyrgen race?”

Bellimar gave a slow shake of his head. “I think not. Wyrgens are the tallest and heaviest of the Wyrgen races. These are too large by far to be any of the other variants with which I am familiar. Though, admittedly, none of the races are known to be steeped in radiation, as are these specimens.”

A scuffing sound from the corridor far ahead brought them sharply about. Their Wyrgen guide crept into view and froze in place, outlined in the murky light cast by the steady, flameless lamps along the stone walls. It started toward them with halting steps at first, and then picking up speed until it broke into a run. Uncertain of the creature’s intent, Amric stepped forward to meet it, blades still in hand. As it neared, the Wyrgen slowed to a shuffle, surveying the scene. It seemed to move in a fog, bewildered, its stricken gaze flitting from its fallen fellows to the naked, blood-smeared steel of the warriors’ blades.

“You killed them, you killed my…. Why did you kill them?”

“We had little choice,” Amric replied. “They attacked us, and we could find no escape.”

Those dark, liquid eyes rose to his, and Amric bore witness to a silent war raging within the Wyrgen. Murderous intent burned its way through the creature’s swirling confusion, and the creature tensed, claws convulsing open. Amric measured the distance between them out of reflex, preparing for the vicious rush that was to come. The rage vanished as quickly as it had emerged, however, and the Wyrgen subsided, lowering its head.

“Of course you had to defend yourselves, of course you did,” it mumbled. “My people are… not themselves, of late. They are not responsible for their actions, and must be treated as unwell.”

“What happened to your people?” Bellimar asked in a smooth, calming tone. “What calamity has befallen proud Stronghold?”

The Wyrgen grunted. “Proud Stronghold, indeed. Too prideful we were, and too confident in our ability