by Andre Norton
When they went on he panted with effort. They still moved in darkness and his distress passed unnoticed.
“This is wrong,” he muttered, half to himself. “We go too easily—”
And he was answered out of the blackness. “Well noted, outlander. But you go free for the moment, as do Thrala and Dandtan. Our full accounting is not yet. And now, farewell, until we meet again in the Hall of Thrones. I could find it in me to applaud your courage, outlander. Perhaps you will come to serve me yet”
Garin turned and threw himself toward the voice, rushing up with bruising force against the wall. Kepta laughed.
“Not with the skill of the bull Tand will you capture me.”
His second laugh was cut cleanly off, as if a door had been closed. In silence the three hurried up the ramp. Then, as through a curtain, they came into the light of Tav.
Thrala let her drab cloak fall, stood with arms outstretched in the crater land. Her sparkling robe sheathed her in glory and she sang softly, rapt in her own delight. Then Dandtan put his arm about her; she clung to him, staring about as might a beauty-bewildered child.
Garin wondered dully how he would be able to make the journey back to the Caverns when his arm and shoulder were being eaten with a consuming fire. The Ana crept closer to him, peering into his white face.
They were aroused by a howl from the Caves. Thrala cried and Dandtan answered her unspoken question. “They have set the morgels on our trail!”
The howl from the Caves was echoed from the forest. Morgels before and behind them! Garin might set himself against one, Dandtan another, and Thrala could defend herself with the rod, but in the end the pack would kill them.
“We shall claim protection from the Gibi of the Cliff. By the law they must give us aid,” said Thrala as, turning up her long robe, she began to run toward the cliffs. Garin picked up the cloak and drew it across his shoulder to hide his welts. When he could no longer match her pace Thrala must not guess the reason for his falling behind.
Garin afterward remembered little of that flight through the forest. At last the gurgle of water broke upon his pounding ears, as he stumbled along a good ten lengths behind his companions. They had come to the edge of the wood along the banks of the river.
Without hesitation Thrala and Dandtan plunged into the oily flood, swimming easily for the other side. Garin dropped the cloak, wondering if once he stepped into the yellow stream he would be able to struggle out again. Already the Ana was paddling in circles near the shore and pleading with him to follow. Wearily Garin waded out.
The water, which washed the blood and sweat from his aching body, was faintly brackish and stung his wounds to life. He could not fight the sluggish current and it bore him downstream, well away from where the others landed.
But at last he managed to win free, crawling out near where a smaller stream joined the river. There he lay panting facedown upon the moss. And there they found him, water dripping from his bedraggled finery, the Ana stroking his muddied hair. Thrala cried out with concern and pillowed his head on her knees while Dandtan examined his wounds.
“Why did you not tell us?” demanded Thrala.
He did not try to answer, content to lie there, her arms supporting him. Dandtan disappeared into the forest, returning soon, his hands filled with a mass of crushed leaves. With these he plastered Garin’s wounds.
“You’d better go on,” Garin warned.
Dandtan shook his head. “The morgels cannot swim. If they cross they must go to the bridge, and that is half the crater away.”
The Ana dropped into their midst, its small hand filled with clusters of purple fruit. And so they feasted, Garin at ease on a fern couch, accepting food from Thrala’s hand.
There seemed to be some virtue in Dandtan’s leaf plaster for, after a short rest, Garin was able to get to his feet with no more than a twinge or two in his wounds. But they started on at a more sober pace. Through mossy glens and sunlit glades where strange flowers made perfume, the trail led. The stream they followed branched twice before they struck away from the guiding water across the meadow land toward the crater wall.
Suddenly Thrala threw back her head and gave a shrill, sweet whistle. Out of the air dropped a yellow and black insect, as large as a hawk. Twice it circled her head and then perched itself on her outstretched wrist.
Its swollen body was jet black, its curving legs, three to a side, chrome yellow. The round head ended in a sharp beak and it had large, many-faceted eyes. The wings, which lazily tested the air, were black and touched with gold.
Thrala rubbed the round head while the insect nuzzled affectionately at her cheek. Then she held out her wrist again and it was gone.
“We shall be expected now and may pass unmolested”
Shortly they became aware of a murmuring sound. The crater wall loomed ahead, dwarfing the trees at its base.
“There is the city of the Gibi,” remarked Dandtan.
Clinging to the rock were the towers and turrets of many eight-sided cells.
“They are preparing for the Mists,” observed Thrala. “We shall have company on our journey to the Caverns.”
They passed the trees and reached the foot of the wax skyscrapers which towered dizzily above their heads. A great cloud of the Gibi hovered about them. Garin felt the soft brush of their wings against his body. And they crowded each other jealously to be near Thrala.
The soft hush-hush of their wings filled the clearing as one large Gibi of outstanding beauty approached. The commoners fluttered off and Thrala greeted the Queen of the cells as an equal. Then she turned to her companions with the information the Gibi Queen had to offer.
“We are just in time. Tomorrow the Gibi leave. The morgels have crossed the river and are out of control. Instead of hunting us they have gone to ravage the forest lands. All Tav has been warned against them. But they may be caught by the Mist and so destroyed. We are to rest in the cliff hollows, and a Gibi shall come for us when it is time to leave.”
Garin was awakened by a loud murmuring. Dandtan knelt beside him.
“We must go. Even now the Gibi seal the last of the cells.”
They ate hurriedly of grain and honey cakes, and, as they feasted, the Queen again visited them. The first of the swarm were already winging eastward.
With the Gibi nation hanging like a storm cloud above them, the three started off across the meadow. The purple-blue haze was thickening and here and there curious formations, like the dust devils of the desert, arose and danced and disappeared again. The tropic heat of Tav increased; it was as if the ground itself were steaming.
“The Mists draw close; we must hurry,” panted Dandtan.
They traversed the tongue of forest which bordered the meadow and came to the central plain of Tav. There was a brooding stillness. The Ana, perched on Garin’s shoulder, shivered.
Their walk became a trot; the Gibi bunched together. Once Thrala caught her breath in a half sob.
“They are flying slowly because of us. And it is so far—”
“Look!” Dantan pointed at the plain. “The morgels!”
The morgel pack, driven by fear, ran in leaping bounds. They passed within a hundred yards of the three, yet did not turn from their course, although several snarled at them.
“They are already dead,” observed Dandtan. “There is no time for them to reach the shelter of the Caves.”
Splashing through a shallow brook, the three began to run. For the first time Thrala faltered and broke pace. Garin thrust the Ana into Dandtan’s arms and, before she could protest, swept the girl into his arms.
The haze was denser now, settling upon them as a curtain. Black hair, finer than silk, whipped across Garin’s throat. Thrala’s head was on his shoulder, her heaving breasts arched as she gasped the sultry air.
Then abruptly they tumbled into a throng of the Folk, one of whom reached for Thrala with a crooning cry. It was Sera welcoming her mistress.
Thrala was borne away by the
women, leaving Garin with a feeling of desolation.
“The Mists, outlander.” It was Urg, pointing toward the Cavern mouth. Two of the Folk swung their weight on a lever. Across the opening a sheet of crystal clicked into place. The Caverns were sealed.
The haze was now inky black outside and billows of it beat against the protecting barrier. It might have been midnight of the blackest, most starless night.
“So will it be for forty days. What is without—dies,” said Urg.
“Then we have forty days in which to prepare.” Garin spoke his thought aloud. Dandtan’s keen face lightened.
“Well said, Garin. Forty days before Kepta may seek us. And we have much to do. But first, our respects to the Lord of the Folk.”
Together they went to the Hall of Thrones where, when he saw Dandtan, Trar arose and held out his jade-tipped rod of office. The son of the Ancient Ones touched it
“Hail! Dweller in the Light, and outlander who has fulfilled the promise of Thran. Thrala is once more within the Caverns. Now you must send this black throne to dust. . . .”
Garin drew the destroying rod from his belt, but Dandtan shook his head. “The time is not yet, Trar. Kepta must finish the pattern he began. We have forty days and then the Black Ones will come.”
Trar considered thoughtfully. “So that is to be the way of it. Tharn did not see another war. . . .”
“But he saw an end to Kepta!”
Trar straightened as if some burden had rolled from his thin shoulders. “You speak well, Lord. When there is one to sit upon the Rose Throne, what have we to fear? Listen, oh ye Folk, the Light has returned to the Caverns!”
His cry was echoed by the gathering of the Folk.
“And now, Lord"—he turned to Dandtan with deference —"what are your commands?”
“For the space of one sleep I shall enter the Chamber of Renewing with this outlander, who is no longer an out-lander, but one Garin, accepted by the Daughter according to the law. And while we rest let all be made ready. . . .”
“The Dweller in the Light has spoken!” Trar himself escorted them from the Hall.
They came, through many winding passages, to a deep pool of water, in the depths of which lurked odd purple shadows. Dandtan stripped and plunged in, Garin following his example. The water was tinglingly alive and they did not linger in it long. From it they went to a bubble room such as the one Garin had rested in after the bath of light rays; on the cushions in its center they stretched their tired bodies.
When Garin awoke he experienced the same exultation he had felt before. Dandtan regarded him with a smile. “Now to work,” he said, as he reached out to press a knob set in the wall.
Two of the Folk appeared, bringing with them clean trappings. After they dressed and ate, Dandtan started for the laboratories. Garin would have gone with him, but Sera intercepted them.
“The Daughter would like to speak with Lord Garin. . . .”
Dandtan laughed. “Go,” he ordered. “Thrala’s commands may not be slighted.”
The Hall of Women was deserted. And the corridor beyond, roofed and walled with slabs of rose-shot crystal, was as empty. Sera drew aside a golden curtain and they were in the Daughter’s audience chamber.
A semi-circular dais of the clearest crystal, heaped with rose and gold cushions, faced them. Before it, a fountain, in the form of a flower nodding on a curved stem, sent a spray of water into a shallow basin. The walls of the room were divided into alcoves by marble pillars, each one curved in the semblance of a tree frond.
From the domed ceiling, on chains of twisted gold, seven lamps, each wrought from a single yellow sapphire, gave soft light. The floor was a mosaic of gold and crystal.
Two small Anas, who had been playing among the cushions, pattered up to exchange greetings with Garin’s. But of the mistress of the chamber there was no sign. Garin turned to Sera, but before he could phrase his question, she asked mockingly:
“Who is the Lord Garin that he cannot wait with patience?” But she left in search of the Daughter.
Garin glanced uneasily about the room. The jeweled chamber was no place for him. He had started toward the door when Thrala stepped within.
“Greetings to the Daughter.” His voice sounded formal and cold, even to himself.
Her hands, which had been held out in welcome, dropped to her sides. A ghost of a frown marred her beauty.
“Greetings, Garin,” she returned slowly.
“You sent for me—” he prompted, eager to escape from this jewel box and the unattainable treasure it held.
“Yes.” The coldness of her tone was of an exile. “I wished to know how you fared and whether your wounds yet troubled you.”
He looked down at his own smooth flesh, cleanly healed by the wisdom of the Folk. “I am myself again and eager to be at such work as Dandtan can find for me. . . .”
Her robe seemed to hiss across the floor as she turned upon him. “Then you had better go—now,” she ordered.
And blindly he obeyed. She had spoken as if to a servant, one whom she could summon and dismiss by whim. Even if Dandtan held her love, she might have extended him her friendship. But he knew within him that friendship would be a poor crumb beside the feast for which his pulses pounded.
There was a pattering of feet behind him. So, she would call him back! His pride sent him on. But it was Sera. Her head thrust forward until she truly resembled a reptile.
“Fool! Morgel!” she spat. “Even the Black Ones did not treat her so. Get you out of the Place of Women lest they divide your skin among them!”
Garin ignored her torrent of reproach as well as he could. He seized upon one of the Folk as guide and sought the laboratories. Far beneath the surface of Tav, where the light-motes shone ghostly in the gloom, they came into a place of ceaseless activity, where there were tables crowded with instruments, coils of glass and metal tubing, and other equipment and supplies. This was the focusing point for ceaseless streams of the Folk. On a platform at the far end, Garin saw the tall son of the Ancient Ones working on a framework of metal and shining crystal.
Dandtan glanced up in greeting as Garin joined him. Soon he was issuing instructions—and thus Garin became extra hands and feet for Dandtan. They worked feverishly to build their defenses against the lifting of the Mists. Since there was no day or night in the laboratories, they were able to work steadily for long periods. Twice they went to the Chamber of Renewing, but save for these trips to the upper ways they were not out of the laboratories through all those days. Of Thrala there was no sign, nor did any one speak of her.
The Cavern dwellers were depending upon two defenses: an evil green liquid, to be thrown in frail glass globes, and a screen charged with energy. Shortly before the lifting of the Mists, these arms were transported to the entrance and installed there. Dandtan and Garin made a last inspection.
“Kepta makes the mistake of underrating his enemies,” Dandtan reflected, feeling the edge of the screen caressingly. “When I was captured, on the day my people died, I was sent to the Black Ones’ laboratories so that their knowledge seekers might learn the secrets of the Ancient Ones. But I proved a better pupil than teacher and I discovered the defense against the Black Fire. After I had learned that, Kepta grew impatient with my supposed stupidity and tried to use me to force Thrala to his will. For that, as for other things, shall he pay—and the payment will not be in coin of his own striking. Let us think of that . . .” He turned to greet Urg and Trar and the other leaders of the Folk, who had approached unnoticed.
Among them stood Thrala, her gaze fixed upon the crystal wall between them and the thinning Mist. She noticed Garin no more than she did the Anas playing with her train and the women whispering behind her. But Garin stepped back into the shadows—and what he saw was not weapons of war, but cloudy black hair and graceful white limbs veiled in splendor.
Urg and one of the other chieftains bore down upon the door lever. With a protesting squeak, the glass wall disappeare
d into the rock. The green of Tav beckoned them out to walk in its freshness; it was renewed with lusty life. But in all that expanse of meadow and forest there was a strange stillness.
“Post sentries,” ordered Dandtan. “The Black Ones will come soon.”
He beckoned Garin forward as he spoke to Thrala: “Let us go to the Hall of Thrones.”
But the Daughter did not answer his smile. “It is not fitting that we should spend time in idle talk. Let us go instead to call upon the help of those who have gone before us.” So speaking, she darted a glance at Garin as chill as the arctic lands beyond the lip of Tav, and then swept away with Sera bearing her train.
Dandtan stared at Garin. “What has happened between you two?”
Garin shook his head. “I don’t know. No man is born with an understanding of women—”
“But she is angered with you. You must know why.”
For a moment Garin was tempted to tell the truth: that he dared not break any barrier she chose to raise, lest he seize what in honor was none of his. But he shook his head mutely. Neither of them saw Thrala again until Death entered the Caverns.
Chapter Five
The Battle in the Caverns
Garin stood with Dandtan looking out into the plain of Tav. Some distance away were two slender steel-tipped towers which were, in reality, but hollow tubes filled with the Black Fire. Before these, dark-clad figures were busy.
“They seem to believe us already defeated. Let them think so,” commented Dandtan, touching the screen they had erected before the Cavern entrance.
As he spoke, Kepta swaggered through the tall grass to call a greeting: “Ho, rock dweller, I would like to speak with you—”
Duntan edged around the screen, Garin a pace behind.
“I see you, Kepta.”
“Good. I trust that your ears will serve you as well as your eyes. These are my terms: Give Thrala to me to dwell in my chamber and the outlander to provide sport for my captains. Make no resistance but throw open the Caverns so that I may take my rightful place in the Hall of Thrones. Do this and we shall be at peace. . ..”