Her robe seemed to hiss across the floor as she turned upon him. “Then go!” she ordered. “Go quickly!”
And blindly he obeyed. She had spoken as if to a servant, one whom she could summon and dismiss by whim. Even if Dandtan held her love, she might have extended him her friendship. But he knew within him that friendship would be a poor crumb beside the feast his pulses pounded for.
There was a pattering of feet behind him. So, she would call him back! His pride sent him on. But it was Sera. Her head thrust forward until she truly resembled a reptile.
“Fool! Morgel!” she spat. “Even the Black Ones did not treat her so. Get you out of the Place of Women lest they divide your skin among them!”
Garin broke free, not heeding her torrent of reproach. Then he seized upon one of the Folk as a guide and sought the laboratories. Far beneath the surface of Tav, where the light-motes shone ghostly in the gloom, they came into a place of ceaseless activity, where there were tables crowded with instruments, coils of glass and metal tubing, and other equipment and supplies. These were the focusing point for ceaseless streams of the Folk. On a platform at the far end, Garin saw the tall son of the Ancient Ones working on a framework of metal and shining crystal.
He glanced up as Garin joined him. “You are late,” he accused. “But your excuse is a good one. Now get you to work. Hold this here—and here—while I fasten these clamps.”
So Garin became extra hands and feet for Dandtan, and they worked feverishly to build against the lifting of the Mists. There was no day or night in the laboratories. They worked steadily without rest, and without feeling fatigue.
Twice they went to the Chamber of Renewing, but except for these trips to the upper ways they were not out of the laboratories through all those days. Of Thrala there was no sign, nor did anyone speak of her.
The Cavern dwellers were depending upon two defenses: an evil green liquid, to be thrown in frail glass globes, and a screen charged with energy. Shortly before the lifting of the Mists, these arms were transported to the entrance and installed there. Dandtan and Garin made a last inspection.
“Kepta makes the mistake of underrating his enemies,” Dandtan reflected, feeling the edge of the screen caressingly. “When I was captured, on the day my people died, I was sent to the Black Ones’ laboratories so that their seekers after knowledge might learn the secrets of the Ancient Ones. But I proved a better pupil than teacher and I discovered the defense against the Black Fire. After I had learned that, Kepta grew impatient with my supposed stupidity and tried to use me to force Thrala to his will. For that, as for other things, shall he pay—and the paying will not be in coin of his own striking. Let us think of that. …” He turned to greet Urg and Trar and the other leaders of the Folk, who had approached unnoticed.
Among them stood Thrala, her gaze fixed upon the crystal wall between them and the thinning Mist. She noticed Garin no more than she did the Anas playing with her train and the women whispering behind her. But Garin stepped back into the shadows—and what he saw was not weapons of war, but cloudy black hair and graceful white limbs veiled in splendor.
Urg and one of the other chieftains bore down upon the door lever. With a protesting squeak, the glass wall disappeared into the rock. The green of Tav beckoned them out to walk in its freshness; it was renewed with lusty life. But in all that expanse of meadow and forest there was a strange stillness.
“Post sentries,” ordered Dandtan. “The Black Ones will come soon.”
He beckoned Garin forward as he spoke to Thrala:
“Let us go to the Hall of Thrones.”
But the Daughter did not answer his smile. “It is not meet that we should spend time in idle talk. Let us go instead to call upon the help of those who have gone before us.” So speaking, she darted a glance at Garin as chill as the arctic lands beyond the lip of Tav, and then swept away with Sera bearing her train.
Dandtan stared at Garin. “What has happened between you two?”
The flyer shook his head. “I don’t know. No man is born with an understanding of women—”
“But she is angered with you. What has happened?”
For a moment Garin was tempted to tell the truth: that he dared not break any barrier she chose to raise, lest he seize what in honor was none of his. But he shook his head mutely. Neither of them saw Thrala again until Death entered the Caverns.
X
Battle and Victory
Garin stood with Dandtan looking out into the plain of Tav. Some distance away were two slender, steel-tipped towers, which were, in reality, but hollow tubes filled with the Black Fire. Before these dark-clad figures were busy.
“They seem to believe us already defeated. Let them think so,” commented Dandtan, touching the screen they had erected before the Cavern entrance.
As he spoke Kepta swaggered through the tall grass to call a greeting:
“Ho, rock dweller, I would speak with you—”
Dandtan edged around the screen, Garin a pace behind.
“I see you, Kepta.”
“Good. I trust that your ears will serve you as well as your eyes. These are my terms: Give Thrala to me to dwell in my chamber and the outlander to provide sport for my captains. Make no resistance but throw open the Caverns so that I may take my rightful place in the Hall of Thrones. Do this and we shall be at peace. …”
“And this is our reply:”—Dandtan stood unmovingly before the screen—“Return to
