Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,65
to harness the greatest of forces. Our hubris was our downfall. Is it not always thus, with reckless mortal kind ever marching to our own doom?”
The woolly head snapped up as the Wyrgen took a sudden step toward them, causing Amric’s swords to flash up and to the ready. The Wyrgen, its expression animated, did not appear to notice in its eagerness.
“But I am not infected, and I will fix it. Am I not Stronghold’s head scientist? I will cure my people, bring them back. I just need more time.” The creature turned to Amric with a plaintive whine. “So you must not slay any more, do you understand? They understand not their actions.”
“I can make no such promise,” Amric said. “We will defend ourselves, if attacked again. But perhaps there need be no further conflict, if you can lead us to Grelthus and the place of safety you mentioned.”
The Wyrgen’s eyes burned with anger, but it dipped its muzzle in a slight nod. “I will lead you. Only I can take you to Grelthus.”
The creature gave a mad chuckle and turned away, padding down the corridor. Amric exchanged a look with the others, and they hastened to follow. A faint howl wafted after them. Half a beat later it was joined by a distant chorus of growling voices. Amric’s jaw tightened. It seemed more of Stronghold was becoming aware of the intruders.
The Wyrgen glanced over its rounded shoulder, eyes lambent in the lamplight and lips peeled back from long, glistening fangs in a mirthless grin. “It is not far now.” It thumped its chest with one hammer-like fist. “Only I, only I can take you to Grelthus.”
Their guide swung forward once more, and Amric heard the creature muttering to itself as it loped onward. The remote sounds of pursuit grew steadily louder as the companions made their way toward the forbidden heart of Stronghold, following on the heels of madness.
CHAPTER 9
Amric paced the floor and fought a losing battle with impatience. He stalked back and forth at the narrow end of the long, windowless stone chamber, and each time he passed the door there, he paused to listen.
There were no sounds of pursuit outside, and there had been none for hours. Their Wyrgen guide––Amric had decided he was male––had been as good as his word on that count, leading them through a maze of twisting corridors and chambers separated by solid metal doors. The Wyrgen locked each portal behind them with a small, cube-like device which he was quick to pocket after every use. He explained in a mournful whisper how his people had degenerated too far to recall even the most basic use of their tools, and thus would be unable to reach them through the secured doors.
Even as he knew relief at the frustrated clamor of pursuit growing more distant with each twist and turn, Amric also felt a growing unease at how dependent they were becoming upon their erratic guide. They were at the heart of a hostile labyrinth, and only the Wyrgen possessed map and key.
As he paced, Amric studied the creature from the corner of his eye. The Wyrgen moved around a large table in the center of the room, rummaging through piles of clutter in what seemed an endless, aimless fashion. A walking path had been preserved around that expansive slab, but the rest of the chamber was littered with crates, stacks of parchment, and countless strange devices in various stages of either assembly or dismantling. A number of items caught the warrior’s roving eye in the quiet hours of waiting: a fanged skull formed entirely of crystal, a pulsating gem which worked its way through a gamut of different luminous colors, a pair of wicked-looking, clawed black gauntlets cleverly articulated for the movement of each joint, and many more. For every item he recognized or for which he could divine a purpose, there were a dozen more that baffled him. Given the spectacular level of disarray, he could only guess at the additional wonders buried in the room, beyond immediate sight.
The Wyrgen had insisted they wait here, in a room he declared safe, until all was quiet in the fortress once more. He had then rebuffed each subsequent query, even those as basic as inquiring after his name, by stressing the continued need for silence and patience. Their guide’s actions, which had at first seemed a reasonable set of precautions, now reeked instead of reticence. Amric ground his teeth with inward exasperation