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.
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 was already busy with the rod. Within five minutes their way was clear again. But Thrala stopped them when they would have gone through. “Kepta has loosed 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.
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