A structure, obviously built by hands guided by a brain, stood next to the open area. The bursts of light were coming from that particular spot. And now he could distinguish people.

Small forms, like bugs standing in the gray-green expanse. The bursts of light began appearing with more frequency now, as if in excitement. It looked as if the lights were shooting forth from out of the midst of the group of people.

Haplo was prepared to meet the inhabitants of this new world. He had his story ready, one similar to that which he'd told the dwarf, Limbeck, on Arianus.

I'm from another part of Pryan, my people (depending on circumstances as he found them) are exactly like you-fighting for their freedom from oppressors. We have won our battle and I have gone forth to help free others.

Of course, there was always the possibility that these people-elves, humans, and dwarves-were living in peace and tranquility with each other, that they had no oppressors, that all was progressing nicely under the rule of the Sartan and they didn't need freeing, thank you. Haplo considered this possibility and, grinning, rejected it. Worlds changed, one factor remained constant. It simply wasn't a mensch's nature to live in harmony with his fellow mensch [22].

Haplo could see the people on the ground clearly now and he knew that they could see him. People were rushing out of the structure, peering up into the sky. Others were running up the hillside toward the bursts of light. He could begin to make out what appeared to be a large city hidden beneath the overspreading tree branches. Through a break in the jungle growth, he saw a lake surrounded by enormous structures with cultivated gardens and vast expanses of smooth green lawn.

Closer still, and he saw the people staring up at his winged dragonship, its body and head painted so cunningly that it might appear to those below to be a real dragon. He noted that many people were refusing to venture into the open area where it must by now be obvious that Haplo was going to land. They huddled in the shelter of trees, curious, but too prudent to move any closer.

Haplo was, in fact, rather astonished to note that all the people weren't fleeing in panic at his approach. But several of them, two in particular, stood right underneath him, heads tilted upward, hands lifted to shield their eyes from the rays of the blazing sun. He could see one of them-a figure clad in flowing, mouse-colored robes-making gestures with his arms, pointing out a cleared area. If it hadn't been too impossible to even consider, Haplo might have supposed he was expected!

"I've been up here too long," he said to the dog. Feet planted firmly, the animal was staring out the ship's large windows, barking frantically at the people below.

Haplo had no time to continue watching. Hands on the steering stone, he called upon the runes to slow Dragon Wing, keep the ship steady, and bring it safely to rest. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the robed figure hopping up and down, waving a disreputable old hat in the air.

The ship touched ground and, to Haplo's alarm, kept going! It was sinking! He saw then, that he wasn't on firm ground but had landed on a bed of moss that was giving way beneath the ship's weight. He was just about to act to halt the ship's descent when it settled itself with an almost cradling motion, burrowing into the moss like the dog into a thick blanket. At last, after perhaps eons of traveling, Haplo had arrived.

He glanced out the windows, but they were buried beneath the moss. He could see nothing but a gray-green leafy mass pressed up against the glass. He would have to leave by the top deck.

Faint voices were coming from up above, but Haplo figured they would be so awed by his ship that they wouldn't come near. If they did, they would get a shock. Literally. He had activated a magical shield around the ship. Anyone touching it would think, for a split instant, that they'd been struck by lightning.

Now that he had reached his destination, Haplo was himself again. His brain was thinking, guiding, directing. He dressed himself so that every part of his rune-tattooed body was covered by cloth. Soft, supple boots fit over leather trousers. A long-sleeved shirt, gathered tightly at the wrists and at the neck, was covered by a leather doublet. He tied a scarf around his neck, tucking the ends into the shirt.

The sigla did not extend up over the head or onto the face-their magic might interfere with the thought process. Starting from a point on the breast above the heart, the nines traced over the body, running down the trunk to the loins, the thighs, the legs, the tops of the feet but not the soles. Whirls and whorls and intricate designs done in red and blue wrapped around the neck, spread across the shoulder blades, entwined the arms and traveled over the tops and palms of the hands, but left bare the fingers. The brain was left free of magic so that it could guide the magic, the eyes and ears and mouth were left free to sense the world around, the fingers and soles of the feet were left free to touch.

Haplo's last precaution, once his ship was landed and he no longer needed the runes to guide it, was to wrap thick bandages around his hands. He wound the linen around the wrist, covering the palm, lacing it through the bottoms of the fingers; the fingers and thumb he left bare.

A skin disease, he'd told the mensch on Arianus. It is not painful, but the red, puss-filled pustules the disease forms are a sickening sight. Everyone on Arianus, after hearing that story, had taken care to avoid Haplo's bandaged hands.

Well, almost everyone.

One man had guessed he was lying, one man-after casting a spell on Haplo-had looked beneath the bandages and seen the truth. But that man had been Alfred, a Sartan, who had suspected in advance what he might find. Haplo had noticed Alfred paying an unusual amount of attention to his hands, but he'd ignored it-a mistake almost fatal to his plans. Now he knew what to watch for, now he was prepared.

Haplo conjured up an image of himself and inspected himself carefully, walking completely around the illusionary Haplo. At length, he was satisfied. No trace of a rune showed. He banished the illusion. Tugging the bandages over his hands into place, he ascended to the top deck, threw open the hatch, and emerged, blinking, into the bright sun.

The sound of voices hushed at the sight of him. He pulled himself up on the deck and glanced around, pausing a moment to draw a deep breath of fresh, if extremely humid, air. Below, he saw faces, upturned, mouths open, eyes wide.

Elves, he noted, with one exception. The figure in the mouse-colored robes was human-an old man, with long white hair and long white beard. Unlike the others, the old man wasn't gazing at Haplo in awe and wonder. Beaming, stroking his beard, the old man turned this way and that.

"I told you," he was shouting. "Didn't I tell you? By cracky, I guess now you believe me!"

"Here, dog!" Haplo whistled and the animal appeared on deck, trotting along at his heels, to the added astonishment of all observers.

Haplo didn't bother with the ladder; the ship had settled so deeply into the moss-its wings resting on top-that he could jump lightly from the top deck to the ground. The elves gathered around Dragon Wing backed up hurriedly, regarding the ship's pilot with suspicious incredulity. Haplo drew in a breath, and was about to launch into his story, his mind working rapidly to provide him with the elven language.

He never got a chance to speak.

The old man rushed up to him, grabbed him by the bandaged hand.

"Our savior! Right on time!" he cried, pumping Haplo's arm vigorously. "Did you have a nice flight?"

CHAPTER 19.

THE BORDER, THURN.

ROLAND SQUIRMED, TRYING TO EASE HIS CRAMPED MUSCLES BY MOVING INTO another position. The maneuver worked for a few moments, then his arms and buttocks began aching again, only in different places. Grimacing, he tried surreptitiously to twist his wrists out of the vines that bound him. Pain forced him to quit. The vines were tough as leather; he'd rubbed his skin raw.

"Don't waste your strength," came a voice.

Roland looked around, twisting his head to see.

"Where are you?"

"The other side of this tree. They're using pythavine. You can't break it. The more you try, the tighter the pytha'll squeeze you."

Keeping one eye on his captors, Roland managed to worm his way around the large tree trunk. He discovered, on the other side, a dark-skinned human male clad in bright-colored robes. A gold ring dangled from his left ear lobe. He was securely tied, vines wrapped around his chest, arms, and wrists.

"Andor," he said, grinning. One side of his mouth was swollen, dried blood caked half his face.

"Roland Redleaf. You a SeaKing?" he added, with a glance at the earring.

"Yeah. And you're from Thillia. What are you people doing in Thurn territory?"

"Thurn? We're nowhere near Thurn. We're on our way to the Fartherness."

"Don't play dumb with me, Thillian. You know where you are. So you're trading with the dwarves ..." Andor paused, and licked his lips. "I could sure use a drink about now."

"I'm an explorer," said Roland, casting a wary glance at their captors to see if they were being observed.

"We can talk. They don't give a damn. There's no need to lie, you know. We're not going to live long enough for it to matter."

"What? What do you mean?"

"They kill everyone and everything they come across ... twenty people in my caravan. All dead, the animals, too. Why the animals? They hadn't done anything. It doesn't make any sense, does it?"

Dead? Twenty people dead? Roland stared hard at the man, thinking perhaps he was lying, trying to scare the Thillian away from SeaKing trade routes. Andor leaned back against the tree trunk, his eyes closed. Roland saw sweat trickle down the man's forehead, the dark circles beneath the sunken eyes, the ashen lips. No, he wasn't lying. Fear constricted Roland's heart. He remembered hearing Rega's frantic scream, crying his name. He swallowed a bitter taste in his mouth.

"And ... you?" he managed.

Andor stirred, opened his eyes, and grinned again. It was lopsided, because of his damaged mouth, and seemed ghastly to Roland.

"I was away from camp, answering nature's call. I heard the fighting ... I heard the screams. That darktime ... God of the Waters, I'm thirsty!" He moistened his lips with his tongue again. "I stayed put. Hell, what could I do? That darktime, I circled back. I found them-my business partners, my uncle ..." He shook his head. "I ran. Kept going. But they caught me, brought me here right before they brought you in. It's weird, the way they can see you without eyes."

"Who ... what the hell are they?" Roland demanded.

"You don't know? They're tytans."

Roland snorted. "Kids' stories-"

"Yeah! Kids." Andor began to laugh. "My little nephew was seven. I found his body. His head had been split wide open, like someone had stomped on it." His laughter shrilled and broke; he coughed painfully.

'Take it easy," Roland whispered.

Andor drew a shuddering breath. "They're tytans, all right; the ones who destroyed the Kasnar Empire. Wiped it out. Not a building left standing, a person left alive except those who managed to flee ahead of them. And now they're moving south, coming down through the dwarven kingdoms."

"But the dwarves'll stop them, surely ... ?"

Andor sighed, grimaced, and twisted his body. "Word is that the dwarves are in league with 'em, that they worship these bastards. The dwarves plan to let the tytans march right through and destroy us, then the dwarves'll take over our lands."

Roland recalled vaguely Blackbeard saying something about his people and the tytans, but it was too long ago, swimming in ale.

Movement glimpsed from a corner of his eye caused him to turn. More of the giants appeared, gliding into the large open space where the two humans lay bound, moving more silently than the wind, never fluttering a single leaf.

Roland eyed these new creatures warily, saw that they carried bundles in their arms. He recognized a fall of dark hair... .

"Rega!" He sat up, struggling wildly against his bonds.

Andor smiled, his mouth twisting. "More of you, huh? And an elf with you! God of the Waters, if we had caught you ..."

The tytans carried their captives to the base of Roland's tree and laid them down. His heart rose when he saw that they were gentle with their prisoners, taking care to ease them to the ground. Both Paithan and Rega were unconscious, their clothes covered with what looked like pieces of broken fungus. But neither appeared to be injured. Roland could see no blood, no signs of braising or broken bones. The tytans bound their captives skillfully and efficiently, stared down at them a moment, as if studying them, then left them. Gathering in the center of the clearing, the tytans formed a circle and their heads turned toward the others, "Spooky bunch," Roland decided. Edging his body as near Rega's as possible, he laid his head down on her chest. Her heart beat was strong and regular. He nudged her with an elbow.

Her eyelids fluttered. She opened them, saw Roland and blinked, startled and confused. Remembered terror flooded her eyes. She tried to move, discovered she was bound, and caught her breath in a fearful gasp.

"Rega! Hush! Lie still. No, don't try! These damn vines tighten if you struggle."

"Roland! What happened? Who are these-" Rega looked at the tytans and shuddered.

"The tyros must have caught wind of these things and bolted. I was chasing after them when the jungle came alive all around me. I had time to scream and that was it. They caught me, knocked me out."

"Paithan and I were standing on the ... the ledge. They came up and put their hands on it and began to sh-shake it ..."

"Shhh, there. It's over now. Quin all right?"

"I-I think so." Rega glanced down at her spore-covered clothes. "The fungus must have broken our fall." Leaning near the elf, she spoke softly. "Paithan! Paithan, can you hear me?"

"Ayyyy!" Paithan woke with a cry. "Shut him up!" growled Andor.

The tytans had ceased observing each other and transferred their sightless gaze to their captives. One by one, moving slowly, gliding gracefully over the jungle floor, the tytans came toward them.

"This is it!" said Andor grimly. "See you in hell, Thillian."

Someone made a whimpering sound. Whether it was Rega or the elf, Roland couldn't tell. He couldn't take his eyes from the giants long enough to find out. He felt Rega's shivering body press against his. Movement in the undergrowth indicated that Paithan, bound like the rest of them, was attempting to wriggle his way over near Rega.

Keeping his eyes on the tytans, Roland saw no reason to be afraid. They were big, but they didn't act particularly menacing or threatening.

"Look, Sis," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "if they'd wanted to kill us, they would've done it before this. Just keep calm. They don't look too bright. We can bluff our way outta this."

Andor laughed, a horrible, bone-chilling sound. The tytans-ten of them-had gathered around their captives, forming a semicircle. The eyeless heads faced them. A very soft, very quiet, very gentle voice spoke.

Where is the citadel?

Roland gazed up at them, puzzled. "Did you say something?" He could have sworn that their mouths never moved.

"Yes, I heard them!" Rega answered in awe.

Where is the citadel?

The question was repeated, still spoken quietly, the words whispering through Roland's mind.

Andor laughed again, manically. "I don't know!" he shrieked suddenly, tossing his head back and forth. "I don't know where the goddamn citadel is!"

Where is the citadel? What must we do?

The words were urgent now, no longer a whisper but a cry mat was like a scream trapped in the skull.

Where is the citadel? What must we do? Tell us! Command us!

At first annoying, the screaming inside Roland's head became rapidly more painful. He wracked his burning brain, trying desperately to think, but he'd never heard of any "citadel," at least not in Thillia.

"Ask ... the ... elf!" he managed, forcing the words out between teeth clenched against the agony.

A terrifying scream behind him indicated that the tytans had taken his advice. Paithan lurched over, rolling on the ground, writhing in pain, shouting something in elven.

"Stop it! Stop it!" Rega begged, and suddenly the voices ceased.

It was quiet inside his head. Roland sagged weakly against his bonds. Paithan lay, sobbing, on the moss. Rega, arms tightly bound, crouched near him. The tytans gazed at their captives and then one of them, without the slightest warning, lifted a tree branch and slammed it into Andor's bound and helpless body.

The SeaKing couldn't cry out; the blow crushed his rib cage, punctured his lungs. The tytan raised the branch and struck again. The blow split the man's skull.

Warm blood splashed on Roland. Andor's eyes stared fixedly at his murderer; the SeaKing had died with that ghastly grin on his face, as if laughing at some terrible joke. The body twitched in its death throes.

The tytan struck again and again, wielding the gore-covered branch, beating the corpse to a bloody pulp. When the body had been mangled beyond recognition, the tytan turned to Roland.

Numb, horrified, Roland summoned adrenaline-fed strength and plunged backward, knocking Rega to the ground. Wriggling around, he hunched over her, shielding her body with his own. She lay quietly, too quietly, and he wondered if she had fainted. He hoped she had. It would be easier ... much easier. Paithan lay nearby, staring wide-eyed at what was left of Andor. The elf's face was ashen. He seemed to have quit breathing.

Roland braced himself for the blow, praying that the first killed him swiftly. He heard the scrabbling sound in the moss below him, felt the hand grab onto the buckle of his belt, but the hand wasn't real to him, not as real as the death that loomed above him. The sudden jerk and the plunge down through the moss brought him sharply to his senses. He gasped and spluttered and floundered, as a sleepwalker who stumbles into an icy lake.