The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept (20 page)

“What do you make of it?” Amric asked at last.

“It should not stand,” Valkarr replied at once.

Amric was forced to agree
. He had been eyeing the structure since it hove into clear view around the curve of the cliff wall. Though the Sil’ath were wondrous crafters on a smaller scale, they seldom built large, elaborate structures. Perhaps it was evidence that their nomadic impulse yet remained. It was just as rare for them to employ siege tactics such as sapping or demolition, but their military training still encompassed something of basic engineering and materials. Furthermore, Amric had taken it upon himself to study at the university in Lyden and bring the additional knowledge back to his people to augment their skills.

And e
verything he had learned, in direct contradiction to what he was seeing, insisted that the bridge before them simply could not be.

He dismounted
and let the reins drop, then approached the edge of the precipice where the bridge began. The structure was wide enough for two horses abreast and composed entirely of some strange alloy, but he could find no seams or bolts demarcating the component pieces. Instead, it appeared to be forged of one unimaginably long, continuous piece of metal. Where the span met the stone at his feet, the two disparate materials merged, and the one flowed into the other without interruption. Ribs of metal looped in high arcs over the walking surface, but there were none of the heavy supports above or below that he expected of a bridge spanning many hundreds of yards. Amric peered down into the gorge, at the dark green treetops far below shot through with bleached veins of rock. If this contraption gave way beneath them, their quest would come to an abrupt and ignominious end down there.

“The
Wyrgens are reputed to be unparalleled craftsmen, producers of countless marvels,” Bellimar reminded him. “If any could produce a bridge that defies gravity, it is they.”

Amric gave a noncommittal grunt
. It was also said that the masters of Stronghold guarded their privacy with ferocious zeal, and were known to make examples of unwelcome visitors. This precarious path through the air could collapse by fault of construction or by design to repel invaders, and either way the outcome for Amric and his companions would be the same. Still, the bridge led to an opening in the chiseled wall on the other side, and he did not relish the thought of turning back now to find another approach.

There was no visible activity on the far side, but this was somewhat expected since nothing had been heard from the
Wyrgens for many months.

Bellimar had done much on the journey from
Keldrin’s Landing to fill the gaps left in common knowledge regarding the reclusive Wyrgens of Stronghold. Like their base relatives, the savage Wyrgs of the lowlands, the Wyrgens were powerful and towering in stature, bestial in appearance and capable of rending a man limb from limb. Unlike their more primitive cousins, however, they were extremely intelligent, preferring science and clever manipulation of magical essences to warlike endeavors. Their inventions were highly sought after among the other nations, and with sufficient motivation the Wyrgens sometimes put aside their xenophobic tendencies to enter in trade arrangements with other races. Their feral cunning led to unease in their trade partners, but that discomfort was overlooked to garner the advantage that came with the Wyrgens’ technology, particularly in matters of war. As he heard all this, Amric could not help but ponder how selling machines of destruction to other races so they could destroy each other seemed like an arrangement in which the Wyrgens profited in two ways.

Establishing the military fort that would later become
Keldrin’s Landing may have represented the first foothold of the civilized nations in the region, but as they expanded, men found the Wyrgens and Stronghold already here. No one could say whether the Wyrgens had built Stronghold themselves, or if they had merely appropriated it for their own. For their part, the Wyrgens were tight-lipped on the subject.

Keldrin
’s Landing had established a trade relationship with Stronghold, and thus enjoyed more efficient mining and research equipment, with a dramatic effect on profits. With the spreading disruption, the city had been pressing for the Wyrgens to produce advanced defensive measures by which the town could protect itself and the surrounding countryside. Then contact with the Wyrgens was lost.

Subsequent envoys to Stronghold had not returned
. Morland admitted to having formed his own surreptitious side arrangement with the Wyrgens, for purposes he refused to divulge; Amric was certain it was for some dark purpose, given the merchant’s soulless avarice, but even Morland’s considerable resources had not enabled him to reach his private contacts.

All of this left Amric facing the bridge and pondering the un
knowable. It was possible the Wyrgens were hidden to view inside, unaware or uncaring of their approach, or that no other envoy had made it here or survived the return trip. It was possible, but the alternatives were of more immediate concern. Whether the Wyrgens had fled Stronghold, or remained there but shunned the outside world, the bridge could be a trap to ward off intruders. More sinister yet, if something strong enough to eradicate or drive away the Wyrgens had taken up residence in Stronghold, the riders faced an even more uncertain reception.

Amric gave a mental shrug
. There was nothing for it but to try. He would not back down before mere speculation. He strode to his horse and stepped into the saddle. He looked to the others, finding all eyes upon him. Without comment, he turned and guided the bay forward and onto the bridge.

He rode several yards out, and the structure held firm
. He paused and glanced back to see his companions gathered at the foot of the bridge, and he resumed crossing. Out over the yawning chasm he rode, steady and unhurried. His horse’s hooves rang eerily against the metal frame. Midway across the span, he looked over his shoulder to see the others crossing as well, each spaced a score of yards from the next to distribute the weight. Amric was now confident they need not have bothered, as the bridge made no protest, no creaking or cracking under the weight of horse and rider. In fact, the only indication that he was not on solid ground came in the form of an almost indiscernible swaying with the cross wind.

W
hat seemed an eternity later, he reached the wide stone balcony before the outer wall of the fortress. A huge, square entrance gaped before him, with raised portcullis leading into a sunlit inner courtyard. Amric rode forward to ensure no one lurked within, and then waited for his companions to join him. The level top of the bluff that had seemed so expansive at the other end looked miniscule from this vantage, its thick copse of trees no more than a smudge of green now against a veritable sea of stone.

One by one the
riders gained the balcony, and together they passed under the gate and into Stronghold’s grounds.

Amric scanned the empty courtyard
. It was a large, enclosed grassy area on a slight incline from the thick outer wall to the foot of the fortress. A number of smaller buildings were scattered about, each sizeable in its own right but dwarfed to insignificance by the vastness of the brooding edifice looming above. The swordsman gazed up the disorienting expanse that stretched away above them, perhaps even as far as the mountain’s peak itself. Its face was dimpled by many small, shadowed openings starting high above the ground, and when he widened his perspective to take in a larger part of the architecture, he noted strata of epic proportions punctuated by huge, blocky buttresses and other jutting projections. There was no other visible ornamentation, and he saw no seams anywhere to suggest tight-fit ashlar blocks. It appeared as if the entire colossal structure was carved by the same sculptor as the mysterious bridge, and somehow shaped whole from the flesh of the mountain.

At the base of the fortress, he spied a sweeping set of stairs ascending to a recess
in the wall, which looked to be the only available path from the courtyard into the fortress.

“This
building is a stable,” Valkarr said, pointing to one of the smaller buildings.

“And this other looks to be living quarters
,” Amric put in. “I think we are looking upon support structures for visitors the Wyrgens prefer to keep outside the fortress proper.”

Bellimar nodded, his eyes roving over the face of the fortress
. “That would be in keeping with the attitude of the Wyrgens. Few are the members of other races who have been within Stronghold itself. I would expect to find concentric layers of increasing restriction inside, with everything truly precious to the Wyrgens found deep within, toward the core.”

They allowed the horses to graze on the unkempt grass of the courtyard, and
Amric set 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 or obstacles to be removed. But I can assure you that Grelthus still lives, and I can take you to him, if we move quickly.”

“Why must we move quickly?” Bellimar asked
. “Is Stronghold no longer open to visitors?”