“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.
Xar expanded his range of hearing, listened for her. He heard her, running and sobbing, heard her fall. Then he heard another voice.
Xar smiled. He’d been right. The dwarf. She’d led him to the dwarf. He listened to their conversation, ignored most of it. What an inane story. The dwarf was drunk; that much was obvious. Xar laughed aloud at the suggestion that the citadel’s gates be opened to the tytans. Mensch were more stupid than he’d thought.
“I will open the gates, dwarf,” Xar said. “When you are dead! And you can make friends with the tytans then!”
The two were emerging from the maze. Xar was pleased. He hadn’t expected them to come out so soon.
He strolled over to one of the nearby buildings and hid in the shadows. From here he could see the entrance to the maze, yet remain unobserved. He would allow them to get far enough from the maze so that they could not run back to it for protection.
“I will kill these two now,” he said to himself. “Leave their bodies here for the time being. When the others are dead, I will return for the corpses, begin the preparations to raise them.”
He could hear the heavy footfalls of the dwarf, moving down the path, nearing the entrance. The elf female was with him, her footfalls much lighter, barely discernible. But he could plainly hear her frantic whispers.
“Drugar! Don’t go out there! Please. I know he’s there. I know it!”
Perceptive, these elves. Xar forced himself to wait patiently and was rewarded by the sight of the dwarf’s black-bearded face popping out around the corner of the hedgerow. The face vanished again immediately, then, after a pause, reappeared.
Xar was careful not to move, was one with the shadow in which he hid.
The dwarf advanced a tentative step, hand on an ax he wore at his belt. He looked up the street and down. At length he gestured.
“Aleatha, come now. It is safe. Lord Xar is nowhere in sight.”
The elf female crept out. “He’s here somewhere, Drugar. I know he is. Let’s run!”
She caught hold of the dwarf’s hand. Together they began running up the street—away from the maze, straight toward Xar.
He let them get close; then he stepped out into the street, directly in front of them.
“What a pity you had to miss my party,” he said to the dwarf. Raising his hand, Xar wove the runes that would slay them both.
The sigla shimmered in the air, swept down on the stunned mensch in a bright flash and, suddenly, began to unravel.
“What—?” Furious, Xar started to recast his magic; then he saw the problem.
The dwarf stood in front of the elf female. In his hand he held the amulet with the Sartan runes. The amulet was protecting them both.
Not for long. Its magic was limited. The dwarf had no idea how to use it beyond this feeble attempt. Xar strengthened his spell.
His sigla burned, flared. Their light was blinding and burst upon the dwarf, upon his puny amulet, with a roar of fire. A shattering explosion, a cry of pain, a terrible scream.
When the smoke cleared, the dwarf lay on the pavement. The elf female knelt over him, pleading with him to get up.
Xar took a step toward her to finish her off.
A voice thundered through the air, halted him.
“
You
killed my wizard!”
A dark shadow obliterated the sun. Aleatha looked up, saw the dragon, saw that it was attacking Xar. She didn’t understand, but understanding didn’t matter. She bent over Drugar. Tugging on his beard, she begged him, pleaded with him to wake up, to help her. She was so frantic, she never noticed that her hands—where they touched the dwarf—were covered with blood.
“Drugar, please!”
The dwarf’s eyes opened. He looked up at the lovely face, so near his own, and he smiled at her.
“Come on, Drugar!” she urged tearfully. “Stand up! Hurry! The dragon—”
“I’m going … to be with … my people …” Drugar told her gently.
“No, Drugar!” Aleatha choked. She saw the blood now. “Don’t leave me …”
He frowned to quiet her. With his fast-fading strength, he pressed the amulet into her hands. “Open the gate. The tytans will help. Trust me! You must … trust me!” He stared up at her, pleading.
Aleatha hesitated. The magic thundered around her; the dragon roared in fury; Xar’s voice chanted strange words.
Aleatha clasped her hands tightly around the dwarf’s.
“I trust you, Drugar,” she said.
His eyes closed. He gasped in pain, yet he smiled. “My people …” He breathed softly, finally.
“Drugar!” Aleatha cried, clutching the amulet in her bloodstained hands.
Xar’s magic flashed. A tremendous wind, raised by the violent lashing of the dragon’s gigantic tail, blew her hair into her face.
Aleatha was no longer crying. She was calm now, surprised at her calmness. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing.
Holding fast to the amulet, unnoticed by either the wizard or the dragon, the elf kissed the dwarf tenderly on his forehead. Then she rose to her feet and walked, with purpose and resolve, down the street.
Paithan and Roland and Rega stood knee-deep in a vast pile of bricks, fallen timbers, and tumbled blocks of marble.
“Are … are any of us hurt?” Paithan asked, looking around in dazed confusion.
Roland lifted his foot, displacing an enormous mound of bricks that had been covering it. “No,” he said hesitantly, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “No, I’m all right. But don’t ask me how.”
Rega brushed rock dust from her face and out of her eyes. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Paithan answered. “I remember the man in black asking about his wizard and then he was a dragon shrieking about his wizard and then … then …”
“The room sort of exploded,” Roland continued. He climbed up and over the rubble until he reached them. “The dragon’s head bashed through the ceiling and the room started collapsing and I remember thinking, ‘This is it, pal. You’re finished.’ ”
“But we’re not,” said Rega, blinking. “We’re not finished. I wonder how we survived?” She gazed around at the terrible destruction. Bright sunlight flooded the room; the dust sparkled in it like myriad tiny jewels.
“Who cares how we survived?” Roland said, heading for a large hole that had been blasted through the wall. “We did, and that’s enough for me. Let’s get the hell out of here! Xar is probably after Aleatha!”
Helping each other, Paithan and Rega clambered over a pile of bricks and rubble.
Before he left, Paithan glanced behind. The circular room, with its round table, was destroyed. Whatever voices had once spoken in that room would speak no more.
The three ran out of the hole in the wall just in time to see a gigantic ball of fire illuminate the sky. Frightened, they fell back, took shelter in a doorway. A boom shook the ground.
“What is it? Can you see?” Roland demanded. “Do you see Aleatha? I’m going out there.”
“No, you’re not!” Paithan caught hold of him. “I’m just as worried about her as you are. She’s my sister. But you won’t help her by getting yourself killed. Wait until we know what’s going on.”
Roland, sweating and ashen-faced, stood trembling; he seemed prepared to race off anyway.
“The dragon’s fighting Xar,” Rega whispered, awed.
“I think you’re right,” Paithan agreed, pondering. “And if the dragon kills Xar, we’re probably next.”
“Our only hope is that they kill each other.”
“I’m going to go find Aleatha!” Roland ran down the stairs.
“Roland! Don’t! You’ll be killed!” Rega went running after him.
“There’s Aleatha! Over there! Thea!” Paithan yelled. “Thea! We’re up here!”
He dashed down the steps to the street level. Aleatha was at the bottom, walking along the street. She either couldn’t hear her brother’s shout, or she was ignoring him. She walked swiftly, didn’t stop, although now Roland had added his powerful voice to the elf’s weaker one.
“Aleatha!” Roland raced past Paithan. Reaching Aleatha, he grabbed hold of her arm.
“You’re hurt!” he cried, seeing blood on the front of her dress.
Aleatha stared at him coldly. “Let go of me.”