The priests formed a ring around the net, tugging at it, trying to force their captive down; they were unaware that their actions actually made Garth's escape much easier, providing the tension necessary to cut the strands, and pulling the severed net down off him.

Once mostly free, he wasted no time in snatching up his prepared dagger and setting the greased cloth ablaze; it produced a dim, smoky, malodorous flame, but it burned. He dropped the flaming remnant of his map and again looked about.

This time he studied the priests; all wore black, or at least colors dark enough to be indistinguishable in the available light. They were babbling excitedly, aware that their captive had somehow eluded the net and set something on fire; the odor was unmistakably that of something burning. Garth regretted that, as it removed much of the element of surprise.

There were about two dozen of them; they covered a wide range of sizes and shapes and, judged by their faces, varied in age from scarcely adult to positively ancient. Their garments were uniformly dirty and ragged, and their faces filthy; but after all, who would care in the eternal darkness of the temple? Or even outside, who expected the blind to be concerned with appearances? That thought drew Garth's attention to their eyes, which he immediately regretted; some were not bad, being merely permanently closed or open and staring sightlessly, but others were glazed; whited over with cataracts, flooded with blood and scar tissue, or simply gone, leaving bloody sockets.

He noticed that one had a long, jagged tear in his robe, revealing a cut across his chest; it seemed singularly clean and bloodless until Garth lifted his makeshift torch for a better look. When the dim light shone full on the man's chest the cut suddenly began oozing blood thickly, and the priest hissed in pain.

Another had a makeshift bandage tight, around his wrist; as the light hit it blood seeped through, staining it a dark red.

A man, an old man, lay on the floor not far from him; a trail of blood showed that this was the priest who had grabbed Garth's shoulder and ankle, only to be wounded at the base of the altar. Whatever dark magic had stanched the wounds of his companions until light hit them had apparently been overtaxed by the severity of his injuries, as his blood seemed to have flowed freely enough. The old man was still breathing, faintly, and Garth wondered if he would live.

Looking across the floor beneath the net Garth saw another trail of blood, where two priests had dragged away the first one he had seriously wounded. His eyes followed the trail to where it vanished under one of the curtains; that, he supposed, would be sleeping quarters, or some similar place where they could tend their wounded.

"So, thief, you lied to us, and brought in some way to make fire. We dare not attack you, thus, when you have your sword and we are unarmed; but still, you cannot find your way out. The maze will stop you."

For the first time Garth could see who spoke; it was a tall, elderly man, his hair gray with age. One sleeve was slashed where Garth's sword had cut it. He had no eyes, but merely empty sockets, long since healed from whatever injury had destroyed his sight.

It seemed unlikely to Garth that the maze could actually be all that impossible; with a wary eye on the priests, he put down his sword for a moment, transferred the dagger-torch to his right hand, picked up the cloth-covered stone with his left, tucked it back in its former position under his arm, put the torch back in his left hand-which could still hold it, although it was not free to make large motions-and picked up the sword. This operation took a minute or more before he was comfortable again, but the priests kept their distance; they knew they were no match for him except in the darkness.

Thus organized, with sword in his right hand, torch in his left, and stone under his left arm, he crossed the dirty stone floor to the drapery through which he had entered; he identified it by its position relative to the altar.

The curtain was wine-colored velvet, he saw when the torch came near enough to make colors distinguishable; it was stained and dusty. It was also, he thought, a good place for an ambush; he slashed at it with his sword, rather than marching through.

There was a piercing scream, and a body fell forward, dragging the drapery down beneath it; he had cut the man's throat. A long, serpentine-bladed dagger rattled on the flagstones as a new, darker stain spread across the ruined velvet.

The bulky stone under his arm kept him from thrusting the torch forward to illuminate what lay beyond the now-open doorway, so he proceeded with deliberate caution, in short steps, looking both ways and always aware of the double-dozen enemies behind him.

There were no further attacks; he stepped through the doorway into the maze.

No fewer than five corridors branched away from where he stood; he studied them all, and then, without hesitation, marched up the one second from the left. He could not hope to remember the twisting route he had followed coming in, let alone reverse it, but he had no need to; in four of the corridors dust lay thick on the floor. Only one route was actually used.

This same method served him well at every intersection, and there were a good many of them; no doubt it would be a great mystery for the surviving dark-worshippers to ponder.

At last, when he was beginning to wonder if he had somehow managed a wrong turn after all, the corridor he followed ended, not in a blank wall, but in a heavy iron door, bolted on his side. He sheathed his sword; surely, no enemy would be able to reach him here! He slid the bolt, and the door swung inward silently with only a gentle tug, revealing the closet-like compartment he had entered from the antechamber.

"Who's there?" The black-robed figure whirled to face him, though the man's eyes were blank and sightless; it was the priest who had led him through the maze, he was sure. "Why did you not signal?"

Annoyed, Garth drew his sword again, and held it to the man's throat. "Silence," he commanded. The priest obeyed admirably. Garth pulled him back into the maze, then stepped past him into the closet space and let the iron door swing shut; it apparently had springs to keep it closed. The side he now saw was not iron at all, but stone; a thin panel of cut stone had been riveted to the metal framework.

He was pleased the man had not put up a fight; he had killed at least one of the priests here, perhaps two or three, and wanted no more bloodshed.

He had no difficulty in opening the door to the antechamber; however, when it swung open, the gust of wind caught his already-dimming torch, which flickered and almost died. He stood where he was for a moment, hoping it would recover; instead, it faded to a dull glow. Most of the cloth was ash.

It mattered little; he was almost out. He crossed the room, and pulled at the door to the outside.

It refused to yield. He bent to look at the handle, as the last flicker of his torch waned and died. He felt for a latch, but found none.

A possibility occurred to him; he groped his way back across the room and closed the door to the maze entrance, making certain it latched securely.

That done, he returned to the exterior door; this time it opened easily and he stepped out into the plaza, to stand blinking in the bright moonlight.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There was no sign of pursuit; perhaps the priests of Andhur Regvos thought him lost somewhere in their labyrinth.

The plaza was still mostly empty. A few humans wandered about, ignoring him, though he was sure he must be a rather strange sight; an overman emerging from the temple with a bloody sword in one hand and a scorched and blackened dagger in the other, and a great black stone-the cover had twisted out of position, and he could see that the altar-stone was of some material resembling obsidian-under one arm.