Then came an impression of vastness. Reaching out their hands, they could no longer feel the tunnel’s sides. The air, though it was still, was surprisingly cool and smelled of dampness and of growth.
“We have reached the bottom,” said the dwarf. “Now, you may rest.”
They collapsed, rolling over on their backs, gasping for breath, stretching, easing cramped and aching muscles. Drugar said nothing else to them. They might have thought he’d left them, except that they could hear his stentorian breathing. At length, rested, they grew more cognizant of their surroundings. Whatever it was on which they were lying was hard and unresiliant, slick and slightly gritty feeling to the touch.
“What is this stuff?” Roland asked, propping himself up. He dug at a handful, ran it through his fingers.
“Who cares?” said Rega. Her voice had a shrill edge, she was panting. “I can’t take this! The dark. It’s awful. I can’t breathe! I’m smothering!”
Drugar spoke words in dwarven, that sounded like rocks clashing together. A light flared, the brilliance painful to the eyes. The dwarf held a torch in his hand.
“Is that better, human?”
“No, not much,” said Rega. Sitting up, she looked around fearfully. “It just makes the darkness darker. I hate it down here! I can’t stand it!”
“You want to go back up there?” Drugar pointed.
Rega’s face paled, her eyes widened. “No,” she whispered, and slid over to be near Paithan.
The elf started to put his arm around her, to comfort her, then he glanced at Roland. His face flushing, Paithan stood up and walked away. Rega stared after him.
“Paithan?”
He didn’t look around. Burying her face in her hands, Rega began to sob bitterly.
“What you are sitting on,” said Drugar, “is dirt.”
Roland was at a loss, uncertain what to do. He knew-as her “husband” he should go comfort Rega, but he had a feeling that his presence would only make matters worse. Besides, he felt in need of comforting himself. Looking down at his clothes, he could see, by the torchlight, splotches of red-blood, Andor’s blood.
“Dirt,” said Paithan. “Ground. You mean we’re actually on ground level?”
“Where are we?” Roland demanded.
“We are in a k’tark, meaning ‘crossroad’ in your language,” answered Drugar. “Several tunnels come together here. We find it is a good meeting place. There is food and water.” He pointed to several shadowy shapes barely visible in the flickering torchlight. “Help yourself.”
“I’m not all that hungry,” mumbled Roland, rubbing frantically at the bloodstains on his shirt. “But I could use some water.”
“Yes, water!” Rega lifted her head, the tears on her cheeks sparkled in the firelight.
“I’ll get it,” offered the elf.
The shadowy shapes turned out to be wooden barrels. The elf removed a lid, peered inside, sniffed. “Water,” he reported. He carried a gourd filled with the liquid to Rega.
“Drink this,” he said to her gently, his hand touching her shoulder.
Rega cupped the gourd in her hands, drank thirstily. Her eyes were on the elf, his were on her. Roland, watching, felt something dark twist inside him. I made a mistake. They like each other, like each other a lot. And that’s not in the plans. I don’t care two sticks if Rega seduces an elf. I’ll be damned if she’s going to fall in love with one.
“Hey,” he said. “I could use some of that.”
Paithan rose to his feet. Rega handed back the empty gourd with a wan smile. The elf headed for the water barrel. Rega flashed Roland a piercing, angry glance. Roland returned it, scowling. Rega flipped her dark hair over her shoulder.
“I want to leave!” she said. “I want out of here!”
“Certainly,” said Drugar. “Like I said, crawl back up there. They are waiting for you.”
Rega shuddered. Forcing back a cry, she hid her face in her folded arms.
.”There’s no need to be so rough on her, dwarf. That was a pretty awful experience up there! And if you ask me”-Paithan cast a grim look at their surroundings-“things down here don’t look much better!”
“The elf’s got a point,” struck in Roland. “You saved our lives. Why?”