The Andre Norton MEGAPACK ®. Andre Norton
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the hunters.”
“The hunters?”
“The morgels and—others,” explained Dandtan. The Black Ones have withdrawn and only death comes this way. And the morgels see in the dark.…”
“So does the Ana.”
“Well thought of,” agreed the son of the Ancient Ones.
“It will lead us out.”
As if in answer, there came a tug at Garin’s belt. Reaching back, he caught Thrala’s hand and knew that she had taken Dandtan’s. So linked they crossed the guard room. Then the Ana paused for a long time, as if listening. There was nothing to see but the darkness which hung about them like the smothering folds of a curtain.
“Something follows us,” whispered Dandtan.
“Nothing to fear,” stated Thrala. “It dare not attack. It is, I think, of Kepta’s fashioning. And that which has not true life dreads death above all things. It is going—”
There came sounds of something crawling slowly away.
“Kepta will not try that again,” continued the Daughter, disdainfully. “He knew that his monstrosities would not attack. Only in the light are they to be dreaded—and then only because of the horror of their forms.”
Again the Ana tugged at its master’s belt. They shuffled into the narrow passage beyond. But there remained the sense of things about them in the dark, things which Thrala continued to insist were harmless and yet which filled Garin with loathing.
Then they entered the far corridor into which led the three halls and which ended in the morgel pit. Here, Garin believed, was the greatest danger from the morgels.
The Ana stopped short, dropping back against Garin’s thigh. In the blackness appeared two yellow disks, sparks of saffron in their depths. Garin thrust the rod into Thrala’s hands.
“What do you?” she demanded.
“I’m going to clear the way. It’s too dark to use the rod against moving creatures.…” He flung the words over his shoulder as he moved toward the unwinking eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Escape from the Caves
Keeping his eyes upon those soulless yellow disks, Garin snatched off his hood, wadding it into a ball. Then he sprang. His fingers slipped on smooth hide, sharp fangs ripped his forearm, blunt nails scraped his ribs. A foul breath puffed into his face and warm slaver trickled down his neck and chest. But his plan succeeded.
The cap was wedged into the morgel’s throat and the beast was slowly choking. Blood dripped from the flyer’s torn flesh, but he held on grimly until he saw the light fade from those yellow eyes. The dying morgel made a last mad plunge for freedom, dragging his attacker along the rock floor. Then Garin felt the heaving body rest limply against his own. He staggered against the wall, panting.
“Garin!” cried Thrala. Her questing hand touched his shoulder and crept to his face. “It is well with you?”
“Yes,” he panted, “let us go on.”
Thrala’s fingers had lingered on his arm and now she walked beside him, her cloak making whispering sounds as it brushed against the wall and floor.
“Wait,” she cautioned suddenly. “The morgel pit.…”
Dandtan slipped by them. “I will try the door.”
In a moment he was back. “It is open,” he whispered.
“Kepta believes,” mused Thrala, “that we will keep to the safety of the gallery. Therefore let us go through the pit. The morgels will be gone to better hunting grounds.”
Through the pit they went. A choking stench arose from underfoot and they trod very carefully. They climbed the stairs on the far side unchallenged, Dandtan leading.
“The rod here, Garin,” he called; “this door is barred.”
Garin pressed the weapon into the other’s hand and leaned against the rock. He was sick and dizzy. The long, deep wounds on his arm and shoulder were stiffening and ached with a biting throb.
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 does 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, bringing up with bruising force against rock 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 fall her drab cloak, 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 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 out 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 lightly. Garin picked up her cloak and drew it across his shoulder to hide his welts. When he could no longer hold her pace she must not guess the reason for his falling behind.
Of that flight through the forest the flyer afterward remembered little. 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 ever be able to struggle out again. Already the Ana was in, 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, face down 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 knee 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 can not 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 hands filled with clusters of