The Andre Norton MEGAPACK ®. Andre Norton
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in their jaws,” flashed Kepta. “What manner of beast are you?”
“A clean beast, Kepta, which you are not. Bid your two-legged morgels loose the youth, lest I grow impatient.” The flyer swung the green rod into view.
Kepta’s eyes narrowed but his smile did not fade. “I have heard of old that the Ancient Ones do not destroy—”
“As an outlander I am not bound by their limits,” returned Garin, “as you will learn if you do not call off your stinking pack.”
The master of the Caves laughed. “You are as the Tand, a fool without a brain. Never shall you see the Caverns again—”
“You shall own me master yet, Kepta.”
The Black Chief seemed to consider. Then he waved to his men. “Release him,” he ordered. “Outlander, you are braver than I thought. We might bargain—”
“Thrala goes forth from the Caves and the black throne is dust, those are the terms of the Caverns.”
“And if we do not accept?”
“Then Thrala goes forth, the throne is dust and Tav shall have a day of judging such as it has never seen before.”
“You challenge me?”
Again words, which seemed to Garin to have their origin elsewhere, came to him. “As in Yu-lac, I shall take—”
Before Kepta could reply there was trouble in the pit. Dandtan, freed by his guards, was crossing the floor in running leaps. Garin threw himself belly down on the balcony and dropped the jeweled strap of his belt over the lip.
A moment later it snapped taut and he stiffened to an upward pull. Already Dandtan’s heels were above the snapping jaws of a morgel. The flyer caught the youth around the shoulders and heaved. They rolled together against the wall.
“They are gone! All of them!” Dandtan cried, as he regained his feet. He was right; the morgels howled below, but Kepta and his men had vanished.
“Thrala!” Garin exclaimed.
Dandtan nodded. “They have taken her back to the cells. They believe her safe there.”
“Then they think wrong.” Garin stooped to pick up the green rod. His companion laughed.
“We’d best start before they get prepared for us.”
Garin picked up the Ana. “Which way?”
Dandtan showed him a passage leading from behind the other door. Then he dodged into a side chamber to return with two of the wing cloaks and cloth hoods, so that they might pass as Black Ones.
They went by the mouths of three side tunnels, all deserted. None disputed their going. All the Black Ones had withdrawn from this part of the Caves.
Dandtan sniffed uneasily. “All is not well. I fear a trap.”
“While we can pass, let us.”
The passage curved to the right and they came into an oval room. Again Dandtan shook his head but ventured no protest. Instead he flung open a door and hurried down a short hall.
It seemed to Garin that there were strange rustlings and squeakings in the dark corners. Then Dandtan stopped so short that the flyer ran into him.
“Here is the guard room—and it is empty!”
Garin looked over his shoulder into a large room. Racks of strange weapons hung on the walls and the sleeping pallets of the guards were stacked evenly, but the men were nowhere to be seen.
They crossed the room and passed beneath an archway.
“Even the bars are not down,” observed Dandtan. He pointed overhead. There hung a portcullis of stone. Garin studied it apprehensively. But Dandtan drew him on into a narrow corridor where were barred doors.
“The cells,” he explained, and withdrew a bar across one door. The portal swung back and they pushed within.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kepta’s Trap
Thrala arose to face them. Forgetting the disguise he wore, Garin drew back, chilled by her icy demeanor. But Dandtan sprang forward and caught her in his arms. She struggled madly until she saw the face beneath her captor’s hood, and then she gave a cry of delight and her arms were about his neck.
“Dandtan!”
He smiled. “Even so. But it is the outlander’s doing.”
She came to the American, studying his face. “Outlander? So cold a name is not for you, when you have served us so.” She offered him her hands and he raised them to his lips.
“And how are you named?”
Dandtan laughed. “Thus the eternal curiosity of women!”
“Garin.”
“Garin,” she repeated. “How like—” A faint rose glowed beneath her pearl flesh.
Dandtan’s hand fell lightly upon his rescuer’s shoulder. “Indeed he is like him. From this day let him bear that other’s name. Garan, son of light.”
“Why not?” she returned calmly. “After all—”
“The reward which might have been Garan’s may be his? Tell him the story of his namesake when we are again in the Caverns—”
Dandtan was interrupted by a frightened squeak from the Ana. Then came a mocking voice.
“So the prey has entered the trap of its own will. How many hunters may boast the same?”
Kepta leaned against the door, the light of vicious mischief dancing in his eyes. Garin dropped his cloak to the floor, but Dandtan must have read what was in the flyer’s mind, for he caught him by the arm.
“On your life, touch him not!”
“So you have learned that much wisdom while you have dwelt among us, Dandtan? Would that Thrala had done the same. But fair women find me weak.” He eyed her proud body in a way that would have sent Garin at his throat had Dandtan not held him. “So shall Thrala have a second chance. How would you like to see these men in the Room of Instruments, Lady?”
“I do not fear you,” she returned. “Thran once made a prophecy, and he never spoke idly. We shall win free—”
“That will be as fate would have it. Meanwhile, I leave you to each other.” He whipped around the door and slammed it behind him. They heard the grating of the bar he slid into place. Then his footsteps died away.
“There goes evil,” murmured Thrala softly. “Perhaps it would have been better if Garin had killed him as he thought to do. We must get away—”
Garin drew the rod from his belt. The green light motes gathered and clung about its polished length.
“Touch not the door,” Thrala advised; “only its hinges.”
Beneath the tip of the rod the stone became spongy and flaked away. Dandtan and the flyer caught the door and eased it to the floor. With one quick movement Thrala caught up Garin’s cloak and swirled it about her, hiding the glitter of her gem-encrusted robe.
There was a curious cold lifelessness about the air of the corridor, the light-bearing motes vanishing as if blown out.
“Hurry!” the Daughter urged. “Kepta is withdrawing the living light, so that we will have to wander in the dark.”
When they reached the end of the hall the light was quite gone, and Garin bruised his hands against the stone portcullis which had been lowered. From somewhere on the other side of the barrier came rippling laughter.
“Oh, outlander,” called Kepta mockingly, “you will get through easily enough when you remember your weapon. But the dark you can not conquer so easily, nor that which runs the halls.”
Garin