would look to the dais.
“Put aside your axes,” said Lucius, “and pick it up.”
But neither Kur had put aside his ax.
“Now!” said Lucius.
Each retained his weapon. They looked at the blasted remains of their fellows.
“Yes,” said Lysymachos. “Pick it up!”
“Do not be afraid,” said Lucius. “It could not be as before, or it would destroy the contents of the box.”
“Do not be afraid,” said Timarchos, obviously in pain, but yet seemingly alert, leaning forward, his eyes glistening. “It is harmless,” he said. “It cannot hurt you now.”
Clearly these protestations by Timarchos and Lysymachos, so readily offered, even eagerly offered, encouraging contact with the container, did little to assuage any apprehension on the part of the two Kurii.
“Pick it up!” said Lucius. Clearly, in Kur, this was said with impatience and force. The translator, of course, clicked out the words with no hint of the passion with which they had been uttered.
“Show us,” said one of the two.
“You are leader,” said the other. “Lead.”
“Yes,” said Lysymachos. “Fetch the container yourself, noble Lucius.”
“It is harmless,” Timarchos assured him.
“Touch it, noble Lucius,” said one of the two Kurii.
“Grasp it boldly,” said the other.
“We will follow,” said the first Kur.
“Do not fail us, noble Lucius,” said the other.
“It is harmless,” said Lucius. “But it is not needed. I will destroy it.” Lucius grasped his ax with both hands, near the bottom of the haft. He raised the ax.
“Do not strike,” said a voice in clear, even, calm Kur. This sound came from the back of the room, from the very portal through which Lucius and his minions had entered.
There, tall, and mighty, in full harness, stood Grendel. Behind him was the eyeless Tiresias.
“You perished in the Voltai!” cried Timarchos.
“How is the wretched, blind exile alive?” asked a Kur. “He was put out for larls and sleen months ago.”
“How dare you present yourself here,” cried Lucius, “amongst true Kurii, you, a monster, an enemy to all, badly spoken and deformed. See his eyes, see his hands!”
A murmur of revulsion passed amongst the Kurii in the room.
Some looked away.
“I remember him,” said a Kur. “I remember him from the world, from the arena.”
I understood little of this.
“He survived the arena,” said another Kur.
“Before thousands,” cried the Lady Bina, “he bespoke himself my champion.”
“Many died,” said another.
“He fought well,” said another.
“He survived,” said another.
“Rings were his,” said another.
“You are not now in the arena,” snarled Lucius, and readied his ax.
“Give him an ax,” cried a Kur. “He is not armed.”
It was true that he carried no ax. He did have the side knife in its sheath, part of the harnessing, but he made no attempt to draw that blade.
“You live, glorious Grendel!” cried Desmond of Harfax.
“Arm yourself, or flee, dear guard, sweet monster,” implored the Lady Bina. “His eyes mean death.”
Grendel stepped forward, to the center of the room, and Lucius, with a cry of rage, unintelligible in the translator, rushed forward and his ax, bright and double edged, described its swift, terrible arc, and in a moment might have cut away a head and part of a shoulder, but it was suddenly arrested in its flight, shaken, trembling in the impact, its haft beneath the blade grasped in a mighty hand, one which had scarcely moved.
In the chamber there were cries of astonishment.
Then Grendel wrenched the ax from the hands of Lucius. And Lucius backed away, and Grendel observed him, the ax in his right hand.
Lucius turned to his two cohorts. He pointed to Grendel. “Kill him!” he said.
“No,” said one of Lucius’ Kurii.
“Obey!” cried Lucius.
“You have lost,” said the Kur.
“Stand and be slain,” said the other.
“No,” said Lucius. “No!”
He moved rapidly, unopposed, to the large double door of the audience chamber.
“Do not flee the Cave!” called Grendel.
“A guard has been set, a guard has been set!” called Tiresias.
But Lucius had departed.
Grendel dropped his ax, and the two Kurii who had served Lucius dropped theirs as well.
“What men will,” cried Desmond of Harfax, “may now escape the Cave. There is work to be done. We must forestall treason! We must warn a world. We must make our way to the cities. We must transmit tidings of subversion. What has been set afoot here is now abroad. We must move before the snows!”
“The snows have begun,” said Timarchos.
“Last night,” said Lysymachos.
“There is no time to lose,” said Desmond of Harfax. “We will fight our way through them!”
“The passes will be closed,” said a wounded Kur.
“We shall leave as soon as possible,” said Desmond of Harfax. “Only one last thing remains to be done.”
He then ran to the dais and leaped upon it, his knife raised.
“Stop!” cried Timarchos.
“Do not!” cried Lysymachos.
Before the knife of Desmond of Harfax could fall Lord Grendel darted forward with the speed of a charging sleen, and caught Desmond of Harfax about the waist, lifted him, and spun about, hurling him several feet away, back, to the center of the room.
I ran to Desmond of Harfax, and knelt beside him. “Master!” I wept. He was confused, and stunned. I feared an arm might be broken.
On the dais Lord Grendel had approached the table on which reposed the last container, that which had been on the right side of the dais, as one would face the dais.
“Is it Grendel?” came from the container.
“It is Grendel,” said Lord Grendel.
“Kill it!” cried Desmond of Harfax, from the center of the room, now on his feet, unsteadily, grasping his arm.
“Forgive me, dear Desmond,” said Grendel.
“Kill it, kill it!” cried Desmond of Harfax.
“No,” said Lord Grendel.
Timarchos, with great pain, struggled to his feet, and Lysymachos, weak and bloody, stood, as well.
“My son,” came from the container.
“Father,” said Grendel.
He then placed the damaged container tenderly into the arms of Timarchos.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“Do you not think, dear Grendel,” asked the Lady Bina, “that I should be a Ubara, somewhere,
