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 Cavern 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—and 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 woman 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 flyer’s 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 blood-stained 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.
“So, Outlander, Thrala flies to your arms—”
Garin whirled about. Kepta was hunched on the broad seat of the jet throne.
“No, I am not dead, Outlander—nor shall you kill me, as you think to do. I go now, but I shall return. We have met and hated, fought and died before—you and I. You were a certain Garan, Marshall of the air fleet of Yu-Lac on a vanished world, and I was Lord of Koom. That was in the days before the Ancient Ones pioneered space. You and I and Thrala, we are bound together and even fate can not break those bonds. Farewell, Garin. And do you, Thrala, remember the ending of that other Garan. It was not an easy one.”
With a last malicious chuckle, he leaned back in the throne. His battered body slumped. Then the sharp lines of the throne blurred; it shimmered in the light. Abruptly then both it and its occupant were gone. They were staring at empty space, above which loomed the rose throne of the Ancient Ones.
“He spoke true,” murmured Thrala. “We have had other lives, other meetings—so will we meet again. But for the present he returns to the darkness which sent him forth. It is finished.”
Without warning, a low rumbling filled the Cavern; the walls rocked and swayed. Lizard and human, they huddled together until the swaying stopped. Finally a runner appeared with news that one of the Gibi had ventured forth and discovered that the Caves of Darkness had been sealed by an underground quake. The menace of the Black Ones was definitely at an end.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thrala’s Mate
Although there were falls of rock within the Caverns and some of the passages were closed, few of the Folk suffered injury. Gibi scouts reported that the land about the entrance to the Caves had sunk, and that the River of Gold, thrown out of its bed, was fast filling this basin to form a lake.
As far as they could discover, none of the Black Ones had survived the battle and the sealing of the Caves. But they could not be sure that there was not a handful of outlaws somewhere within the confines of Tav.
The Crater itself was changed. A series of raw hills had appeared in the central plain. The pool of boiling mud had vanished and trees in the forest lay flat, as if cut by a giant scythe.
Upon their return to the cliff city, the Gibi found most of their wax skyscrapers in ruins, but they set about rebuilding without complaint. The squirrel-farmers emerged from their burrows and were again busy in the fields.
Garin felt out of place in all the activity that filled the Caverns. More than ever he was the outlander with no true roots in Tav. Restlessly, he explored the Caverns, spending many hours in the Place of Ancestors, where he studied those men of the outer world who had preceded him into this weird land.
One night when he came back to his chamber he found Dandtan and Trar awaiting him there. There was a curious hardness in Dandtan’s attitude, a somber sobriety in Trar’s carriage.
“Have you sought the Hall of Women since the battle?” demanded the son of the Ancient One abruptly.
“No,” retorted Garin shortly. Did Dandtan accuse him of double dealing?
“Have you sent a message to Thrala?”
Garin held back his rising temper. “I have not ventured where I can not.”
Dandtan nodded to Trar as if his suspicions had been confirmed. “You see how it stands, Trar.”
Trar shook his head slowly. “But never has the summoning been at fault—”
“You forget,” Dandtan reminded him sharply. “It was once—and the penalty was