"And where were you going?"
"We were trying to find our way to the sea."
"From where did you come?"
"Recently we were in Kapdor," I explained.
I saw his eyes narrow ominously. "So you are Thorists!" he snapped.
"No," I assured him, "we are not. We were prisoners of the Thorists." I hoped that my guess had been a good one and that he was not kindly disposed toward the Thorists. The slender thread upon which I hung my hopes was no more substantial than the frown that had clouded his brow at my admission that we had just come from Kapdor.
To my relief his expression changed. "I am glad that you are not Thorists; otherwise I would not help you. I have no use for the breed."
"You will help us, then?" I asked.
"With pleasure," he replied. He was looking at Duare as he spoke, and I did not exactly relish the tone of his voice nor the expression on his face.
The kazars were circling around us, cackling and whistling. When one of them approached us too close, Skor would flick it with the lash of a long whip he carried; and the creature would retreat, screaming and cackling the louder.