| 75 Taking your pack from your shoulders you hunt around within its contents looking for the bunch of keys you found previously. You are sure one had the number "101" inscribed upon it and within a roll of loose clothes you find it. Trying it in the keyhole the lock turns easily and the door swings open. As the door opens you hear in the distance the sound of a large number of iron-shod feet tramping down the stairway entry to the Great Hall. Pulling the key from its lock you quickly close the door behind you. With your ear pressed firmly against its smooth timber you try to hear what might be going on in the hall outside. Through the thick door it is difficult to discern very much but you can hear the shouts of the Hordim as they search the Great Hall. From their agitation you know that they have discovered you are still at large within the fortress but they cannot find you. Faintly you hear the rattling of locks and handles. It sounds as if the search party is checking whether the doors in the hall are secure. The patrol moves methodically from one door to the next, checking their security and giving each a good thump just for good measure. The door you hide behind is solid and cannot be opened without the key you possess so the patrol soon passes; a muffled thump on its woodwork by a mailed fist the only indication the patrol has shown any interest. After a moment the echo of a door slamming in the distance is all that remains of the creatures passing. Perspiring freely in the cold quiet of the room, you breath a sigh of relief and remind yourself to give an offering to the gods if you ever return to Maenum. Resting against the door for a moment you turn to look at the room you have entered. To your amazement it is perfectly clean and almost bare, the only items in the room being a free-standing full length mirror in one corner and a flask of liquid perched on a small column in the other. Moving over to the mirror you find reflected in its clean glass a sorry sight. Your clothes are torn and marked by blood and filth. Your face is a portrait of dirt and your hair is a mat of mud and dust. You make a firm decision to have a good wash when you get out of here. As you stand there strangely absorbed by your own image you do not at first see the mirror change, a spectral mist forming slowly at the edges of the glass. You jump back, reeling with surprise as the mirror speaks....
| Turn to section 35.
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