“I wish you’d remembered that while I was digging,” Wiz said as Kenneth knocked the dirt out of his helm and laced it tight to his mail coif.
“Bal-Simba did not say to do your work for you,” Donal replied. Then he scrambled up the dirt pile and squeezed into the crack, dragging his great sword behind him.
“All clear,” he called after a moment from the other side and Wiz slithered through after him with Kenneth close behind.
Amazingly, the seeker’s golden light was still visible, reflected off the wall at the end of the corridor. Wiz and his companions hurried on, turned a corner and there, about twenty-five yards in front of them, was the seeker, bobbing up and down gently in front of a stout oaken door.
“Moira? Moira?” Wiz called as they came down the corridor.
A pale tear-stained face appeared in the tiny barred window set in the door.
“Wiz? Oh, Wiz!”
Wiz rushed ahead of his companions and pressed against the door. “Oh my God! Darling, are you all right?”
“Oh Wiz, Wiz. I’ve been so . . . Oh Wiz!” and Moira started to cry.
“Come on, we’ll get you out of there. Stand away from the door, now.”
Moira backed from the window, as if reluctant to lose sight of him.
“Get as far away as you can and cover yourself,” Wiz instructed her. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
“I’m . . . I’m ready.” Moira called tentatively from within the cell.
Wiz raised his staff.
“What was that?” Atros growled.
“Vig noiss. Egplhossion.” The goblin commander’s human speech was slurred by his great tusks.
“I know that, idiot! But what caused it?”
The goblin merely shrugged, which only increased the wizard’s ire. For over two hours Atros had been searching the dungeons based on the report of a troop of goblins who had been attacked in their guardroom by a strong force of human warriors and wizards. At least that was their story, Atros thought sourly. So far he had seen nothing to prove it.
“Well, where did it come from?” he snapped.
“That way, Master. Where special prisoner is.” Atros ears pricked up. What was the old crow hiding down here? “Well, let’s check. Quickly.”
With nearly fifty heavily armed and armored goblins behind them Atros and the goblin commander set off down the tunnel at a trot.
The dungeons were a difficult labyrinth in the best of times, but with the incredible attack going on above, the maze of twisty little passages was almost impenetrable. The magic which usually guided the knowledgeable wasn’t working and Atros was forced to rely on the memory and navigating skill of the goblins. He had a sneaking suspicion they had spent most of their time down here lost and wandering in circles—if a circle wasn’t too regular a figure to describe their movments.
But something had obviously happened to those guards and Atros was encouraged by the report of humans in the dungeons—apparently Northern guardsmen at that. What was going on over their heads was unbelievably powerful, but it was also strange. None of the familiar magic or non-magical forces of the North had been encountered. Atros had perforce learned a grudging respect for the Northerners, not only for developing so many mighty new spells but for keeping everything so secret that the League’s spies had gotten only the vaguest of hints.
However that left the League’s more conventional resources uncommitted and Atros had a shrewd suspicion that they would be thrown in at a critical point. When that happened, he vowed as he jogged along grimly, he would be there and there would be such a duel of wizards as the World had never seen.
Wiz charged through the smoldering ruins of the door and swept Moira into his arms. She was dazed and weeping. She was filthy and her long red hair was matted with dirt, but she was still the most beautiful woman Wiz had ever seen.
“Oh my God, Moira, I thought I had lost you forever.”
“Wiz, oh Wiz,” Moira sobbed into his chest. Then he reached down, lifted her chin and kissed her.
“Now what?” Atros demanded of his hulking companion as they came around the bend. Ahead of them was a faint golden glow, the likes of which Atros had never seen down here.