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 Gibe 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 one shall come for us when it is time to leave.”
The Gibi withdrew to the cell-combs after conducting their guests to the rock-hollows.
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 cakes of grain and honey, 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 there. 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’s so far—”
“Look!” Dandtan 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, though 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.
“They—keep—watch…!” shouted Dandtan.
Piercing the gloom were pin-points of light. A dark shape grazed Garin’s head—one of the Gibi Queen’s guards.
Then abruptly they stumbled 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, 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 send you to dust this black throne…”
Garin, nothing loath, 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. Forty days have we and then the Black Ones come.”
Trar considered thoughtfully. “So that be the way of it. Thran did not see another war…”
“But he saw an end to Kepta!”
Trar straightened as if some burden had rolled from his thin shoulders. “Well do you speak, 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 outlander 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, and on the cushions in its center 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 broke their fast, Dandtan started for the laboratories. Garin would have gone with him, but Sera intercepted them.
“There is one would speak with Lord Garin…”
Dandtan laughed. “Go,” he ordered the American. “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 audience chamber of the Daughter.
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 semblance of a fern 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 can not wait with patience?” But she left in search of the Daughter.
Garin glanced uneasily about the room. This 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 outheld in welcome, dropped to her sides. A ghost of a frown dimmed 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 an order of exile. “I would 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 go!” she ordered. “Go quickly!”
And blindly he obeyed. She had spoke 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 his pulses pounded for.
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 broke free, not heeding her torrent of reproach. Then he seized upon one of the Folk as a 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. These were 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.
He glanced up as Garin joined him. “You are late,” he accused. “But your excuse is a good one. Now get you to work. Hold this here—and here—while I fasten these clamps.”
So Garin became extra hands and feet for Dandtan, and they worked feverishly to build against the lifting of the mists. There was no day or night in the laboratories. They worked steadily without rest, and without feeling fatigue.
Twice they went to the Chamber of Renewing, but except 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 under-rating 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 seekers after knowledge 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 paying 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 disappeared 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 meet 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?”
The flyer shook his head. “I don’t know. No man is born with an understanding of women—”
“But she is angered with you. What has happened?” For a moment Garin was tempted to tell the truth: that he dared not break any barrier she chose to raise, lest he seized what in honor was none of his. But he shook his head mutely. Neither of them saw Thrala again until Death entered the Caverns.
VI
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 speak with you—”
Dandtan 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…”
“And this is our reply:”—Dandtan stood unmovingly before the screen—“Return to the Caves; break down the bridge between your land and ours. Let no Black One come hither again, ever…”
Kepta laughed. “So, that be the way of it! Then this shall we do: take Thrala, to be mine for a space, and then to go to my captains—”
Garin hurled himself forward, felt Kepta’s lips mash beneath his fist; his fingers were closing about the other’s throat as Dandtan, who was trying to pull him away from his prey, shouted a warning: “Watch out!”
A morgel had leaped from the grass, its teeth snapping about Garin’s wrist, forcing him to drop Kepta. Then Dandtan laid it senseless by a sharp blow with his belt.
On hands and knees Kepta crawled back to his men. The lower part of his face was a red and dripping smear. He screamed an order with savage fury.
Dandtan drew the still raging flyer behind the screen. “Be a little prudent,” he panted. “Kepta can be dealt with in other ways than with bare hands.”
The towers were swinging their tips toward the entrance. Dandtan ordered the screen wedged tightly into place.
Outside, the morgel Dandtan had stunned got groggily to its feet. When it had limped half the distance back to its master, Kepta gave the order to fire. The broad beam of black light from the tip of the nearest tower caught the beast head on. There was a chilling scream of agony, and where the morgel had stood gray ashes drifted on the wind.
A hideous crackling arose as the black beam struck the screen. Green grass beneath seared away, leaving only parched earth and naked blue soil. Those within the Caverns crouched behind their frail protection, half blinded by the light from the seared grass, coughing from the chemical-ridden fumes which curled about the cracks of the rock.
Then the beam faded out. Thin smoke plumed from the tips of the towers, steam arose from the blackened ground. Dandtan drew a deep breath.
“It held!” he cried, betraying at last the fear which had ridden him.
Men of the Folk dragged engines of tubing before the screen, while others brought forth the globes of green liquid. Dandtan stood aside, as if this matter were the business of the Folk alone, and Garin recalled that the Ancient Ones were opposed to the taking of life.
Trar was in command now. At his orders the globes were posed on spoon-shaped holders. Loopholes in the screen clicked open. Trar brought down his hand in signal. The globes arose lazily, sliding through the loopholes and floating out toward the towers.
One, aimed short, struck the ground where the fire had burned it bare, and broke. The liquid came forth, sluggishly, forming a gray-green gas as the air struck it. Another spiral of gas arose almost at the foot of one of the towers—an
d then another… and another.
There quickly followed a tortured screaming, which soon dwindled to a weak yammering. They could see shapes, no longer human or animal, staggering about in the fog.
Dandtan turned away, his face white with horror. Garin’s hands were over his ears to shut out that crying.
At last it was quiet; there was no more movement by the towers. Urg placed a sphere of rosy light upon the nearest machine and flipped it out into the camp of the enemy. As if it were a magnet it drew the green tendrils of gas, to leave the air clear. Here and there lay shrunken, livid shapes, the towers brooding over them.
One of the Folk burst into their midst, a women of Thrala’s following.
“Haste!” She clawed at Garin. “Kepta takes Thrala!”
She ran wildly back the way she had come, with the American pounding at her heels. They burst into the Hall of Thrones and saw a struggling group before the dais.
Garin heard someone howl like an animal, became aware the sound came from his own throat. For the second time his fist found its mark on Kepta’s face. With a shriek of rage the Black One threw Thrala from him and sprang at Garin, his nails tearing gashes in the flyers face. Twice the American twisted free and sent bone-crushing blows into the other’s ribs. Then he got the grip he wanted, and his fingers closed around Kepta’s throat. In spite of the Black One’s struggles he held on until a limp body rolled beneath him.
Panting, the American pulled himself up from the bloodstained floor and grabbed the arm of the Jade Throne for support.
“Garin!” Thrala’s arms were about him, her pitying fingers on his wounds. And in that moment he forgot Dandtan, forgot everything he had steeled himself to remember. She was in his arms and his mouth sought hers possessively. Nor was she unresponsive, but yielded, as a flower yields to the wind.
“Garin!” she whispered softly. Then, almost shyly, she broke from his hold.
Beyond her stood Dandtan, his face white, his mouth tight. Garin remembered. And, a little mad with pain and longing, he dropped his eyes, trying not to see the loveliness which was Thrala.
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