Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,80

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.”

Amric knew the instant he entered the chamber that it would be much like the others, and at the same time, very much unlike them.

He tucked away the cube-key device and pushed open the now unlocked door with his free hand, noting with surprise how the door wobbled very slightly on its hinges. He slipped through into the room like a stalking leopard, one sword extended. The others followed him, fanning out into the chamber in silence. They had been exceedingly fortunate thus far, as they stole like ghosts through the winding innards of Stronghold, in that they had not yet run across any of Grelthus’s corrupted brethren. They had taken pains to guard this good fortune, using hand signals in place of conversation when possible, and speaking in hushed whispers only when it could no longer be avoided. No amount of quiet on their part, however, could mask the scent of their passage, should the wild occupants of the fortress chance across their trail.

Most of the doors they encountered had been locked. Amric recalled Grelthus’s rueful comment about how the infected Wyrgens could no longer manipulate even so rudimentary a tool as the key device, and it seemed Grelthus had used this fact to his advantage in securing entire sections of the place from their intrusion. This room was identical in most ways to the last several they had traversed, dusty and empty but for isolated stacks of mundane clutter, but it was also different in several key respects.

First of all, this room led to a viewing chamber below, as they had not seen since departing the room in which Grelthus had trapped them; Amric knew this by the shimmering hues registering faintly in the gloom through the open door at the far end of the chamber. Second, that thick metal door had yielded to violent stress, for it hung loose on its top hinge, bent and warped as if by some titanic wrathful hand. For the third and final difference, the swordsman was struck as he crossed the threshold by a wave of dizziness and nausea, even more potent than he had felt when looking upon the Essence Fount through the wall of glass. His breath came in labored gasps, hissing between clenched teeth, and his knuckles whitened on his sword hilt as his vision darkened at the edges. He felt like a war horse had kicked him in the midsection, and then sat upon his chest for good measure.

Bellimar appeared at his elbow, his pale forehead creased in expressions that were by turn appraising and concerned.