“You ninny!” Paithan scoffed. “Just who do you think’s going to hear you?”
“I don’t know!” Roland turned on him savagely. “But it beats the hell out of standing here whining and waiting to die!” He turned to the wall, was about to beat on it again, when the imposing gentleman, dressed all in black, stepped through the bricks as if he were walking through the erstwhile door.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said deferentially to the astounded Roland, “but I thought I heard you call. Might I be of assistance?”
Before Roland could answer, the imposing gentleman saw the corpse. His face paled.
“Oh, dear, sir. What have you done now?”
The gentleman knelt beside the body, felt for a pulse. Finding none, he looked up. His expression was terrible, stern, fey.
Paithan, alarmed, caught hold of Rega, pulled her close. The two stumbled backward into Roland.
The imposing gentleman stood up ...
...and kept standing.
His body grew taller and taller, rose higher and higher. His frame filled out. An enormous scaled tail thrashed in anger. Reptile eyes flared in fury. The dragon’s voice shook the sealed room.
“Who has killed my wizard?”
Aleatha ran through the maze. She was lost, hopelessly lost, but she didn’t care. In her terror-frazzled mind, the more lost she was, the better her chances of losing Xar. She was so frightened, she didn’t realize he was no longer pursuing her.
The hedges tore at her dress, caught her hair, scratched her hands and arms. The stones on the path bruised her tender feet. A stabbing pain tore at her side every time she drew a breath. Footsore, dazed, she was forced by sheer exhaustion to stop her panic-stricken dash. She sank down onto the path, gulping and sobbing.
A hand touched her.
Aleatha shrieked, fell backward into the hedge. But it wasn’t the black robes and cruel face of Xar that loomed over her. It was the black-bearded and concerned face of the dwarf.
“Drugar?” Aleatha couldn’t see very well through a blood-tinged haze. Was the dwarf real—or still one of the fog-people?
Yet the touch of his hand had been real.
“Aleatha!” Drugar bent down, his expression anxious. He didn’t try to touch her again. “What is the matter? What has happened?”
“Oh, Drugar!” Aleatha timidly reached out her hand, gingerly touched his arm. Finding him solid and substantial, she clutched at him frantically, grabbing on to him with strength born of hysteria, nearly dragging him off his feet.
“You’re real! Why did you leave me alone? I was so frightened! And then... then Lord Xar. He—Did you hear that?”
She turned, stared fearfully behind her. “Is he coming? Do you see him?” She struggled to stand. “We have to run, get away...” Drugar was not accustomed to dealing with hysteria; dwarves are never hysterical. He knew something dire had happened; he needed to find out what. He had to get Aleatha calmed down and he didn’t have time to coddle her (as was his instinctive tendency). He was momentarily at a loss, but a memory from his past—recently revived by his mind-shattering experience—came to his aid. Dwarven children are noted for their stubbornness. A dwarven baby, not getting its way, will sometimes hold its breath until it turns blue and loses consciousness. On such occasions, the parent will throw water into the child’s face. This causes it to gasp, involuntarily draw in a breath. Drugar didn’t have any water, but he did have ale, brought with him to prove that where he had been wasn’t an illusion. He uncorked the clay bottle and tossed ale into Aleatha’s face.
Never in her life had such a thing happened to Aleatha. Dripping and sputtering, she returned to herself—with a vengeance. All the horrors she had witnessed and experienced were deluged, drowned in a flood of foul-smelling brown liquid.
She was quivering with rage. “How dare—”
“Lord Xar,” said Drugar, latching on to the one thing she’d said that made sense. “Where is he? What-did he do to you?”
His words brought back everything, and at first Drugar feared he’d gone too far. Aleatha began to shake. The dwarf held up the clay bottle. “Drink,” he ordered. “Then tell me what has happened.”
Aleatha drew in a deep breath. She detested ale, but, taking the bottle, she swallowed some of the cool liquid. The bitter taste made her gag, but she felt better. With many fits and starts and ramblings, she told Drugar all she had seen, all she had heard.
Drugar listened, his expression grim, his hand continually stroking his beard.
“They’re probably all dead by now.” Aleatha choked on her tears. “Xar murdered them, then came after me. He may be in here now, looking for me. Us, I mean. He kept asking about you.”
“Did he, now?” Drugar fingered the amulet he wore at his throat. “There is one thing we can do, one way to stop him.”
Aleatha peered at the dwarf hopefully through her sodden mass of hair. “What?”
“We must open the gate, let the tytans into the city.”
“You’re mad!” Aleatha stared at the dwarf, began to edge away from him.
“No, I am not mad!” Drugar caught hold of her hand. “Listen to me. I was coming to tell you. Look! Look at this!” He held up the ale. “Where do you think I got this?”
Aleatha shook her head.
“You were right,” Drugar continued, “the fog-people are not shadows. They are real. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have never... never...” The dwarf’s eyes shimmered. He cleared his throat, frowned in embarrassment.
“They live in another citadel, like this one. I was there, I saw it. My people, your people. Even humans. They live together in a city and they get along. They live!” Drugar repeated, his eyes shining. “They are alive. My people! I am not the last of my kind.”
He looked down at the clay bottle with affection. “They gave me this, to bring back. To prove my words.”
“Another city.” Aleatha was following him slowly. “You went to another city. Elves and humans. Ale. You brought back ale. Pretty dresses...” Her shaking hands smoothed her own torn gown. “Can... can I go there with you, Drugar? Can we go now! We’ll escape Xar—”
Drugar shook his head. “There is still a chance the others are alive. We have to open the gate, let the tytans in. They will help us stop Xar.”
“They’ll kill him,” said Aleatha in a dull and lifeless voice, her spirit crushed. “They’ll kill us, too, but I guess that doesn’t matter—”
“They will not,” Drugar said sternly. “You must trust me in this. I learned something while I was in the citadel. It was all a mistake, all a misunderstanding. ‘Where is the citadel?’ the tytans kept asking. All we had to say to them was: ‘Here. Here is the citadel. Come inside.’”
“Truly?” Aleatha looked hopeful, then wary. “Show me. Take me to that place.” Drugar frowned. “Do you want your brother to die?” The dwarf’s voice grew harsh. “Do you want to save Roland?”
“Roland,” Aleatha repeated softly, drooping. “I love him. I really do love him. I don’t know why. He’s so... so—” She sighed. “He told me to run. He jumped in front of me. He saved my life...”
“We will go now,” Drugar urged. “We will go and see what has happened to them.”
“But we can’t leave the maze,” Aleatha said, the hysterical edge tinting her voice. “Xar’s out there, waiting for us. I know he is—”
“Perhaps he has left,” Drugar said. He began walking back up the path. “We will see.”
Aleatha watched him go. She was terrified of following him, but she was even more terrified of being left alone. Gathering her torn skirts, she hastened after the dwarf.
Xar could not go into the maze. The Sartan runes blocked his entry. He cursed and paced, considered the possibilities. He could blast his way through the hedge, but he’d probably have to burn down the entire maze to find the mensch. And charred corpses would not be of much use to him.
Patience was what was required of him now. The elf female would have to emerge sometime, Xar reasoned. She couldn’t spend her life in there. Thirst, hunger would drive her out. The other three mensch were safely ensconced in the walled room. He could wait here for as long as necessary.