Calan looked away, thinking he had heard sounds in the tunnel. The dim light from beyond the tunnel seemed to flutter, as if shadows were dancing in it, and there was a faint, eerie sighing. His hackles rising, the old dwarf scurried aside as something appeared in the tunnel's mouth-something that could not be seen clearly. It was a large thing, but insubstantial. It neither walked nor flew, but seemed to undulate in the air, as though swimming. It came to rest at the entrance to the cavern, settled soundlessly, and shrank as it wrapped itself in wide, transparent flaps that were more like bat-fish fins than wings.
Calan had never gotten used to the 'pet shadow' that Despaxas called Zephyr. The creature appeared to have no substance at all, only a random texture of shadows that fooled the eye. It was nearly invisible, and Calan had often suspected that if he were to touch it-which he never had — he would find that there was nothing there at all. Yet, at the same time, Zephyr emanated a sense of great strength, and Calan often had the impression of long, narrow, needle-sharp teeth beneath slitted, slanted eyes.
'I wish you'd leave that thing outside when we meet,' the dwarf growled. 'I have nightmares for a week every time it shows up.' He shook his head, grimacing, and turned toward Despaxas. But there was no one there. He turned back, and found that he was alone. Both Despaxas and his weird creature had disappeared.
'Despaxas?' the dwarf whispered, then shuddered. Few dwarves ever became comfortable with the presence of magic, and the old Daewar was no exception. 'Rust,' he muttered, 'I wish he'd quit doing that. I don't know which is worse, his pet shadow or his vanishings.'
Back at the pit, old Calan paused for a moment in the ; shadows, in what was once again only a shallow hole | behind an outcrop, then slipped out and retrieved his slops pail. Filling his pail at the steaming caldron where sullen human slaves worked to make food from whatever scraps and leavings the guards allotted, he returned to the cells below the ore shafts and wandered among the slaves there, pausing here and there to ladle slops into bowls for those just returning from the pits. He saved the last bit of stew for the young Hylar squatting in his shadowy corner, and when he arrived there he set down his pail and made a pretense of filling the wooden bowl.
But he whispered as he lifted the ladle, 'Are your shackles weakened, young Derkin? If you intend to escape, the time is now.'
The Hylar glanced up, startled. 'What?'
'Unless you make your escape now, tonight, many others will try to go with you. They know you intend to escape. They have decided to make you their leader and follow you. But a plan for one will fail for many.'
'You speak in riddles, old one,' Derkin growled. 'What do you want of me?'
'I want to go with you when you leave here,' the old dwarf whispered. 'Just me, and no one else.'
'Were I planning to leave here, I'd take no one with me.'
'Oh, but you will, or never leave at all. You need me, Derkin. I can help you.'
'Help me? What can you do for me?'
The old dwarf squatted beside him, tilting his pail as though to scrape out the last bit of contents. 'I can help you escape. Have you seen what is beyond these pits? The defenses there? I expect you to try to slip up the ramp and escape, but you'll never make it that way.'
'I don't need your help,' the Hylar hissed.
'Stubborn.' Calan smiled faintly. 'Would you rather succeed in escaping from this place,
'Riddles,' Derkin growled.
'I've heard it said that wisdom is in letting those help you who want to help you,' the oldster said. 'Accept friends, and they will serve you. Reject them, and they will use you.'
Derkin glanced around, his eyes bright with sudden curiosity. 'I've heard those words before. Who are you,
old one?'
'I'm just an old dwarf.' Calan shrugged. 'But you're right. The words are not mine. I heard your father use those words, many times. So did you, I warrant.'
'You knew my father?'
'I knew him, and I know you. Will you hear what I have to say, Derkin Winterseed?'
'How do you know my name?' Derkin hissed.
'I know much more than that. Will you listen?'
'I'm listening,' Derkin said grudgingly.
'Then believe what I say,' the old dwarf urged. 'Tonight, when you are returned here, I will come to you. Be ready to leave then. I know the way past the pits.'
'If you know a way out, why are you still here?'
'I've been waiting for you,' the old slave said.
'Why? What do you want from me?'
'You ask too many questions for someone with no choice in the matter, Derkin Winterseed. Be ready tonight. I know a way out.'
2
In the near darkness of a nighttime cell, where tbe only ligbt was dim reflection from the low wick of the guard's lamp beyond the grate, Derkin raised himself carefully from the stone floor and turned his head this way and that, listening. For more than an hour now, there had been no sounds of movement in the wide cavern. Only the breathing and occasional snores of hundreds of sleeping dwarves broke the silence.
There had been no sign of the crazy old one-arm, and Derkin half suspected that the old dwarf had either been having a joke at his expense or, more likely, had forgotten all about his promise to help him escape. Probably, he thought, the oldster was as addled as he seemed. Long years in service to humans as a mine slave might well have robbed him of his senses. And just because the old dwarf knew his name, and the identity of his father, it did not mean that he knew some secret way out of these pits.
Still, some of what the old slave had said troubled Derkin. He had sensed for some time that others among the slaves were watching him carefully. He had seen their glances in his direction as they huddled among themselves.
The old dwarf had said that other slaves knew he planned to escape, and that they intended to try to go with him. He sensed the truth of that, and it troubled him. His 'plan' was hardly a plan at all. He had sabotaged the shackles on his legs-had cut the heads from their rivets so that only the curve of their iron held them in place-and now he was simply waiting for an opportunity, a moment of confusion such as the arrival of mine inspectors, to slip away from his work gang and either steal away unnoticed or, at worst, make a dash for the ramp and take his chances. Not much of a plan, he admitted, but it was the only plan he had. One dwarf, alone, just might make it to freedom in such a way. But if others tried to follow him, they would certainly be pursued, caught, and thrown back into the pits. And he would be branded as their leader.
In the near darkness he grimaced, seeing the shadows of all the other slaves who shared the cell. He wished them no harm, but neither did they mean anything to him. They were as capable of escape as he was. If they wanted to try it, let them try it alone, as he intended. But he didn't want them messing up his chances.
The old dwarf had convinced him of one thing. Hecould no longer wait for an opportune time. He had to try it now, before he found himself encumbered by throngs of 'followers.'
For long moments, he listened to the sleeping sounds around him. Then with a sigh of aggravation he sat upright, grasped one of his ankle cuffs with strong hands, and pried at it, his wide shoulders bulging at the effort, short, thick forearms rippling like heavy cable. For a long second, the cuff did not respond. Then, with a tiny pop, the beheaded rivet gave way, and the seam spread an inch, then another and another.
When the gap was wide enough he slipped the shackle from his ankle, moving carefully so that the attached chain would make no sound. Then he went to work on the other cuff. Vaguely, it occurred to him that he was lucky
