Here Drugar had posted his warriors, hoping to be able to cover a retreat.

The One Dwarf saw the jungle move onto the plain. Half-blinded by the unaccustomed sunlight, the dwarves saw the shadows between the trees or maybe even the trees themselves glide with silent feet onto the moss. Drugar squinted, staring hard, trying to count the giants' numbers but it was like counting the leaves in the forest. Awed, appalled, he wondered fearfully how you fought something you couldn't see.

With magic weapons, elven weapons, intelligent weapons that sought their prey, the dwarves might have had a chance. What must we do?

The voice in his head wasn't threatening. It was wistful, sad, frustrated.

Where is the citadel? What must we do?

The voice demanded an answer. It was desperate for an answer. Drugar experienced an odd sensation-for a brief moment, despite his fear, he shared the sadness of these creatures. He truly regretted not being able to help them.

"We have never heard of any citadels, but we will be glad to join you in your search, if you will-"

His father never had a chance to say another word. Moving silently, acting without apparent anger or malice, two of the giants reached down, grabbed the old dwarf in their large hands, and rent him asunder. They tossed the bloody pieces of the carcass to the ground casually, as one tossed aside garbage. Systematically, again without anger or malice, they started to kill.

Drugar watched, appalled, helpless. His mind numbed by the horror of what he had witnessed and been unable to prevent, the dwarf acted on instinct, his body doing what he'd prepared it to do without conscious thought. Grabbing up a kurth horn, he put his lips to it and blew a loud, wailing blast, calling his people back to their dwellings, back to safety.

He and his warriors, some posted high in the trees, fired their arrows at the giants. The sharp wooden points, that could skewer the biggest human, bounced oft the thick hide of the giants. They treated the flights of arrows like flocks of stinging gnats, brushing them away with their hands when they could take time from their butchery to remove them.

The dwarves' retreat was not panicked. The body was one-anything that happened to a single dwarf happened to all dwarves. They stopped to assist those who fell. The older lagged behind, urging the younger forward to safety. The strong carried the weak. Consequently, the dwarves were easy prey.

The giants pursued them, caught them easily, destroyed them without mercy. The moss plain grew soggy with blood. Bodies lay piled on top of each other, some hung from trees into which they'd been hurled. Most had been battered beyond recognition.

Drugar waited until the last moment to seek safety, making certain that those few left alive on that ghastly plain made it back. Even then, he didn't want to leave. Two of his men had to literally drag him down into the tunnels.

Up above, they could hear the rending and breaking of tree limbs. Part of the "roof" of the underground city caved in. When the tunnel behind him collapsed, Drugar and what was left of his army turned to face their foe. There was no longer a need to run to reach safety. No safety existed.

When Drugar came to, he found himself lying in a partially collapsed section of tunnel, the bodies of several of his men lying on top of him. Shoving the corpses aside, he paused to listen, to see if he could hear any sign of life.

There was only silence, dreadful, ominous. For the rest of his life, he would hear that silence and with it the words that whispered in his heart.

"No one ..."

"I will take you to your people," said Drugar suddenly, the first words he'd spoken in a long, long while.

The humans and the elf ceased their bickering, turned, and looked at him.

"I know the way." He gestured into the deeper darkness. "These tunnels ... lead to the border of Thillia. We will be safe if we stay down here."

"All that way! Under ... down here!" Rega blenched.

"You can go back up!" Drugar reminded, gesturing.

Rega looked up, gulped. Shivering, she shook her head.

"Why?" Roland demanded.

"Yes," said Paithan. "Why would you do this for us?"

Drugar stared up at them, the flame of hatred burning, consuming him. He hated them, hated their skinny bodies, their clean-shaven faces; hated their smell, their superiority; hated their tallness.

"Because it is my duty," he said.

Whatever happens to a single dwarf, happens to all.

Drugar's hand, hidden beneath his flowing beard, slipped inside his belt, the fingers closed over a sloth-bone hunting dagger. Terrible joy flared up in the dwarf's heart.

CHAPTER 21.

TREETOPS, EQUILAN.

"AND HOW MANY PEOPLE DO YOU THINK YOUR SHIP WILL CARRY?" INQUIRED Zifnab.

"Carry where?" asked Haplo, cautiously.

"Come fly with me. Up, up, and away in my beautiful baboon. Gone with the wind. Somewhere over the rainbow. I get no kick from champagne... . No, wrong verse."

"Look, sir, my ship isn't going anywhere-"

"Well, of course it is, dear boy. You're the savior. Now, let's see." Zifnab began to count on his fingers, muttering to himself. "The Tribus elves had a flight crew of mpfpt and you add the galley slaves and that's mrrk and any passengers would be mpfpt plus mrrk, carry the one-"

"What do you know about Tribus elves?" demanded Haplo.

"-and the answer is ..." The old wizard blinked. "Tribus elves? Never heard of 'em."

"You brought them up-"

"No, no, dear boy. Your hearing's gone. Such a young man, too. Pity. Perhaps it was the flight. You must have neglected to pressurize the cabin properly. Happens to me all the time. Deaf as a doorknob for days. I distinctly heard myself say 'tribe of elves'. Pass the brandywine, please."

"No more for you, sir," intoned a voice, rumbling through the floor. The dog, lying at Haplo's feet, lifted its head, hackles raised, fur bristling, growling in its throat.

The old man hastily dropped the decanter. "Don't be alarmed," he said, somewhat shamefacedly. "That's just my dragon. He thinks he's Ronald Coleman."

"Dragon," repeated Haplo, looking around the parlor, glancing out the windows. The runes on his skin itched and tingled with danger. Surreptitiously, keeping his hands hidden beneath the white linen tablecloth, he slid aside the bandages, prepared to use his magic to defend himself.

"Yes, dragon," snapped an elven woman peevishly. "The dragon lives beneath the house. Half the time he thinks he's the butler and the other half he's terrorizing the city. Then there's my father. You've met him. Lenthan Quindiniar. He's planning to take us all to the stars to see my mother, who's been dead for years. That's where you come in, you and your winged contraption of evil out there."

Haplo glanced at his hostess. Tall and thin, she was straight up and down, all angles, no curves, and stood and sat and walked stiff as a Volkaran knight in full armor.

"Don't talk like that about Papa, Callie," murmured another elven woman, who was admiring her reflection in a window. "It isn't respectful."

"Respectful!" Calandra rose from her seat. The dog, nervous already, sat up and growled again. Haplo laid a soothing hand on the animal's head. The woman was so furious she never noticed. "When you are 'Lady Durndrun' miss, you can tell me how to talk, but not before!"

Calandra's flashing-eyed gaze flared around the room, visibly scorching her father and the old man. "It is bad enough that I must put up with entertaining lunatics, but this is the house of my father and you are his 'guests'! Therefore, I will feed you and shelter you but I'll be damned if I have to listen to you or look at you! From now on, Papa, I will take my meals in my room!"

Calandra whirled, skirts and petticoats rustled like the leaves in a wind-tossed tree. She stormed from the parlor and into the dining room, her passing creating a ripple of destruction-overturning a chair, sweeping small fragile objects off a table-She slammed the door to the hall shut with such force the wood nearly splintered. When the whirlwind had blown over, quiet descended.

"I don't believe I have ever been treated to such a scene in my eleven thousand years," intoned the voice beneath the floor in shocked tones. "If you want my advice-"

"We don't," said Zifnab hastily.

"-that young woman should be soundly spanked," stated the dragon.

Haplo unobtrusively replaced the bandages.

"It's my fault." Lenthan hunched miserably into his chair. "She's right. I am crazy. Dreaming about going to the stars, finding my beloved again."

"No, sir, no!" Zifnab slammed his hand on the table for emphasis. "We have the ship." He gestured at Haplo. "And the man who knows how to operate it. Our savior! Didn't I tell you he'd come? And isn't he here?"

Lenthan lifted his head, his mild, vague-looking eyes staring at Haplo. "Yes. The man with the bandaged hands. You said that, but-"

"Well, then!" said Zifnab, beard bristling in triumph. "I said I'd be here and I came. I said he'd be here and he came. I say we're going to the stars and we'll go. We haven't much time," he added, his voice lowering. His expression saddened. "Doom is coming. Even as we sit here, it's getting closer."

Aleatha sighed. Turning from the window, she walked over to her father, put her hands gently on his shoulders, and kissed him. "Don't worry about Callie, Papa. She's working too hard, that's all. You know she doesn't mean half what she says."

"Yes, yes, my dear," said Lenthan, patting his daughter's hand absently. He was gazing with renewed eagerness at the old wizard. "So you really, honestly believe we can take this ship and sail to the stars?"

"Not a doubt. Not a doubt." Zifnab glanced nervously about me room. Leaning over to Lenthan, the wizard whispered loudly, "You wouldn't happen to have a pipe and a bit of tobacco about, would-"

"I heard that!" rumbled the dragon.

The old man cringed. "Gandalf enjoyed a good pipe!"

"Why do you think he was called Gandalf the Grey? It wasn't for the color of his robes," the dragon added ominously.

Aleatha walked from the room.

Haplo rose to follow, making a quick gesture to the dog, who rarely took its eyes off his master. The dog obediently stood up, trotted over to Zifnab, and settled down at the wizard's feet. Haplo found Aleatha in the dining room, picking up broken knickknacks.

"Those edges are sharp. You'll cut yourself. I'll do it."

"Ordinarily the servants would clean up the mess," Aleatha said, with a rueful smile. "But we don't have any left. Just the cook, and I think she stays because she wouldn't know what to do with herself if she didn't have us. She's been with us since Mother died."

Haplo studied the smashed figurine he held in his hand. The figure of a woman, it appeared to be a religious icon of some sort, because she was holding her hands up, palm outward, in a ritual expression of blessing. The head had been broken from the body in the fall. Fitting it back into place, Haplo saw the hair was long and white, except for where it turned dark brown at the tips.

"That's the Mother, goddess of the elves. Mother Peytin. Or perhaps you already know that," said Aleatha, sitting back on her heels. Her filmy dress was like a rose cloud around her, her blue-purple eyes, gazing into Haplo's, were alluring, enchanting.

He smiled back, a quiet smile, unassuming. "No, I didn't. I don't know anything about your people."

"Aren't there elves where you come from? Where do you come from, by the way. You've been here several cycles now, and I don't recall hearing you say."

Now was the time for the speech. Now was the time for Haplo to tell her the story he'd arranged during his voyage. Behind, in the parlor, the old man's voice was going on and on.

Aleatha, making a pretty grimace, rose and shut the door between the two rooms. Haplo could still hear the wizard's words quite distinctly, coming to his ears through those of his dog.

"... the heat-resistant tiles kept falling off. Big problem in reentry. Now this ship that's docked out here is made of a material that is more reliable than tiles. Dragon scales," he said in a piercing whisper. "But I wouldn't let word of that get around. Might upset... you know who."

"Do you want to try to fix this?" Haplo held up the two pieces of the broken icon.

"So you intend to remain a mystery," said Aleatha. Reaching out her hands, she took the pieces from Haplo, letting her fingers brush against his ever so lightly. "It doesn't matter, you know. Papa would believe you if you told him you fell from heaven. Callie wouldn't believe you if you said you walked over from next door. Whatever story you do come up with, try to make it entertaining."

Idly, she fit the pieces of the statue together and held it up to the light. "How do they know what she looked like? I mean, her hair, for example. No one has hair like this-white on top and brown at the tips." The purple eyes gathered Haplo inside, held him fast. "I take that back. It's almost like your hair, except that it's reversed. Yours is brown with white on the edges. Odd, isn't it?"

"Not where I come from. Everyone has hair like mine."

That, at least, was a truthful statement. The Patryns are born with brown hair. When they attain puberty, the tips of the hair begin to turn white. What Haplo did not add was that with the Sartan, it is different. They are born with white hair, the tips eventually turning brown. He looked at the goddess the elven woman held in her hand. Here was proof that the Sartan had been to this world. Were they here now?

His thoughts went to the old man. Zifnab hadn't fooled Haplo. The Patryn's hearing was excellent. The old man had said "Tribus" elves-the elves who lived in Arianus, the elves who lived in another world, far and apart from this one.

"... solid fuel rocket booster. Blew up on the launch pad. Horrible. Horrible. But they wouldn't believe me, you see. I told them magic was much safer. It was the bat guano they couldn't handle. Need tons of it, you know, to achieve lift-off... ."

Not that what the old man was saying now made much sense. Still, there was undoubtedly method in his madness. The Sartan, Alfred, had seemed nothing but a bumbling servant.

Aleatha deposited the two halves of the goddess in a drawer. The remains of a broken cup and saucer ended up in the wastebasket.

"Would you like a drink? The brandy is quite fine."

"No, thank you," said Haplo.

"I thought maybe you might need one, after Callie's little scene. Perhaps we should rejoin the others-"

"I'd rather talk to you alone, if it's allowed."

"You mean can we be alone together without a chaperone? Of course." Aleatha laughed, light, rippling. "My family knows me. You won't damage my reputation with them! I'd invite you out to sit on the front porch, but the crowd's still there, staring at your 'evil contraption.' We can go into the drawing room. It's cool in there."

Aleatha led the way, her body rippling like her laughter. Haplo was protected against feminine charms-not by magic, for not even the most powerful runes ever traced upon a body could guard against love's insidious poison. He was protected by experience. It is dangerous to love, in the Labyrinth. But the Patryn could admire female beauty, as he had often admired the kaleidoscopic sky in the Nexus.

"Please, go in," Aleatha said, extending her hand.

Haplo entered the drawing room. Aleatha came behind him, shut the door, and leaned up against it, studying him.

Located in the center of the house, away from the windows, the room was secluded and private. The fan on the ceiling above rotated with a soft whirring noise-the only sound. Haplo turned to his hostess, who was regarding him with a playful smile, "If you were an elf, it would be dangerous for you to be alone with me."

"Pardon me, but you don't look dangerous."

"Ah, but I am. I'm bored. I'm engaged. The two are synonymous. You're extremely well built, for a human. Most of the human males I've seen are so big, with hulking bodies. You're slender." Aleatha reached out, laid her hand on his arm, caressing. "Your muscles are firm, like a tree branch. That doesn't hurt you when I touch you, does it?"

"No," said Haplo with his quiet smile. "Why? Should it?"

"The skin disease, you know."