The tall man pulled himself to his feet with a weary sigh.
“So. Then let us climb—but gently, comrade. These stairs of the Old Ones beat a man’s breath out of his body!”
Fors pulled Arskane’s arm over his shoulder, taking some of the weight of the larger man.
“Slow shall it be—we have the full day before us—”
“And perhaps the night, too, and some other days. Well, climb—comrade.”
Five floors higher Arskane sank down, pulling Fors with him. And the mountaineer was glad of the rest. They had gone slowly, to be sure, but now his leg ached and his breath sobbed in a band of pain beneath his small ribs.
For a space they simply sat there, taking deep breaths and resting. Then Fors noticed with dismay that the sunlight was fading in the patches on the floor. He crawled to a window and looked out. Through the jagged teeth of broken buildings he could see the waters of the lake and the sun was far into the west. It must be late afternoon.
Arskane shook himself awake at that information.
“Now we come,” he observed, “to the matter of food. And perhaps we have too often refreshed ourselves from your canteen—”
Water! Fors had forgotten that. And where inside this maze would they find either food or drink? But Arskane was on his feet now and going through the door which must lead to the rest of that floor. Birds—Fors remembered the evidences of their nesting here—that would be the answer—birds!