Queen of Sorcery

asked, flexing his hands.
    "There were a few," Barak said. "They're sleeping too."
    "Let's get out of here, then," Wolf suggested.
    "We'll take Y'diss with us, won't we?" Aunt Pol asked.
    "What for?"
    "I'd like to talk with him," she said. "At great length."
    "It would be a waste of time," Wolf said. "Salmissra's involved herself in this affair. That's all we really need to know. Her motives don't really interest me all that much. Let's just get out of here as quietly as we can."
    They crept past the snoring guard, turned a corner and moved softly down another corridor.
    "Did he die?" a voice, shockingly loud, asked from behind a barred door that emitted a smoky red light.
    "No," another voice said, "only fainted. You pulled too hard on the lever. You have to keep the pressure steady. Otherwise they faint, and you have to start over."
    "This is a lot harder than I thought," the first voice complained.
    "You're doing fine," the second voice said. "The rack's always tricky. Just remember to keep a steady pressure and not to jerk the lever. They usually die if you pull their arms out of the sockets."
    Aunt Pol's face went rigid, and her eyes blazed briefly. She made a small gesture and whispered something. A brief, hushed sound murmured in Garion's mind.
    "You know," the first voice said rather faintly, "suddenly I don't feel so good."
    "Now that you mention it, I don't either," the second voice agreed. "Did that meat we had for supper taste all right to you?"
    "It seemed all right." There was a long pause. "I really don't feel good at all."
    They tiptoed past the barred door, and Garion carefully avoided looking in. At the end of the corridor was a stout oak door bound with iron. Silk ran his fingers around the handle. "It's locked from the outside," he said.
    "Someone's coming," Hettar warned.
    There was the tramp of heavy feet on the stone stairs beyond the door, the murmur of voices and a harsh laugh.
    Wolf turned quickly to the door of a nearby cell. He touched his fingers to the rusty iron lock, and it clicked smoothly. "In here," he whispered. They all crowded into the cell, and Wolf pulled the door shut behind them.
    "When we've got some leisure, I'll want to talk to you about that," Silk said.
    "You were having such a good time with the locks that I didn't want to interfere." Wolf smiled blandly. "Now listen. We're going to have to deal with these men before they find out that our cells are empty and rouse the whole house."
    "We can do that," Barak said confidently. They waited.
    "They're opening the door," Durnik whispered.
    "How many are there?" Mandorallen asked.
    "I can't tell."
    "Eight," Aunt Pol said firmly.
    "All right," Barak decided. "We'll let them pass and then jump on them from behind. A scream or two won't matter much in a place like this, but let's put them down quickly."
    They waited tensely in the darkness of the cell.
    "Y'diss says it doesn't matter if some of them die under the questioning," one of the men outside said. "The only ones wee have to keep alive are the old man, the woman, and the boy."
    "Let's kill the big one with the red whiskers then," other suggested. "He looks like he might be troublesome, and he's probably too stupid to know anything useful."
    "I want that one," Barak whispered.
    The men in the corridor passed their cell.
    "Let's go," Barak said.
    It was a short, ugly fight. They swarmed over the startled jailers in a savage rush. Three were down before the others fully realized what was happening. One made a startled outcry, dodged past the fight and ran back toward the stairs. Without thinking, Garion dove in front of the running man. Then he rolled, tangling the man's feet, tripping him up. The guard fell, started to rise, then sagged back down in a limp heap as Silk neatly kicked him just below the ear.
    "Are you all right?" Silk asked.
    Garion squirmed out from under the unconscious jailer and scrambled to his feet, but the fight was nearly over. Durnik was pounding a stout man's head against the wall, and Barak was driving his fist into another's face. Mandorallen was strangling a third, and Hettar stalked a fourth, his hands out. The wide-eyed man cried out once just as Hettar's hands closed on him. The tall Algar straightened, spun about and slammed the man into the stone wall with terrific force. There was the grating sound of bones breaking, and the man went limp.
    "Nice little fight," Barak said, rubbing his knuckles.
    "Entertaining," Hettar agreed, letting the