Garan the Eternal Page 3

  The door was open and Garin looked out upon Tav. The soft blue light was as strong as it had been when he had first seen it With the Ana perched on his shoulder and the green rod and the bag of food in his hands, he stepped out onto the moss sod.

  Urg raised his hand in salute and the door clicked into place. Garin stood alone, pledged to bring the Daughter out of the Caves of Darkness.

  Chapter Three

  Into the Caves of Darkness

  There is no light nor day in Tav since the blue light is steady. But the Folk divide their time by artificial means. However Garin, being newly come from the rays of healing, felt no fatigue. As he hesitated the Ana chattered and pointed confidently ahead.

  Before them was a dense wood of fern trees. It was quiet in the forest as Garin made his way into its gloom and for the first time he noted a peculiarity of Tav. There were no birds.

  The portion of the woodland they had to traverse was but a spur of the forest to the west. After an hour of travel they came out upon the bank of a sluggish river. The turbid waters of the stream were a dull saffron color. Garin decided that it must be the River of Gold, boundary of the lands of the Black Ones.

  He rounded a bend and came upon a bridge, so old that time itself had worn its stone angles into curves. The bridge gave onto a wide plain where tall grass grew sere and yellow. To the left was a hissing and bubbling, and a huge vaporous mass arose in the air. Garin choked in a wind, thick with chemicals, which blew from it. He smelled and tasted the sulphur-tainted air all across the plain.

  And he was glad to plunge into a small fern grove which half concealed a spring. There he bathed his head and arms while the Ana pulled open the food bag Sera had given them.

  Together they ate the cakes of grain and dried fruit When they were done the Ana tugged at Garin’s hand and pointed on.

  Cautiously Garin wormed his way through the thick underbrush until, at last, he looked out into a clearing and saw at its edge the entrance of the Black Ones’ Caves. Two tall pillars, carved into the likeness of foul monsters, guarded a rough-edged hole. A fine greenish mist whirled and danced in its mouth.

  Garin studied the entrance. There was no life to be seen. He gripped the destroying rod and inched forward. Before the green mist he braced himself and then stepped within.

  The green mist enveloped Garin. He drew into his lungs hot moist air faintly tinged with a scent of sickly sweetness as from some hidden corruption. Green motes in the air gave forth little light and seemed to cling to the intruder.

  With the Ana pattering before him, he started down a steep ramp, the soft soles of his buskins making no sound. At regular intervals along the wall, niches held small statues. And about each perverted figure was a crown of green motes.

  The Ana stopped, its large ears outspread as if to catch the faintest murmur of sound. From somewhere under the earth came the howls of a maddened dog. The Ana shivered, creeping closer to Garin.

  Down led the ramp, growing narrower and steeper. And louder sounded the insane, coughing howls of the dog. Then the passage was abruptly barred by a grill of black stone. Garin peered through its bars at a flight of stairs leading down into a pit From the pit arose snarling laughter.

  Padding back and forth were things which might have been conceived by demons. They were sleek, rat-like creatures, hairless, and large as ponies. Red saliva dripped from the corners of their sharp jaws. But in the eyes, which they raised now and then toward the grill, there was intelligence. These were the morgels, watchdogs and slaves of the Black Ones.

  From a second pair of stairs directly across the pit arose a moaning call. A door opened and two men came down the steps. The morgels surged forward, but fell back when whips were cracked over their heads.

  The masters of the morgels were human in appearance. Black loincloths were twisted about them and long, wing-shaped cloaks hung from their shoulders. On their heads, completely masking their hair, were cloth caps which bore ragged crests not unlike cockscombs. As far as Garin could see they were unarmed except for their whips.

  A second party was coming down the steps. Between two of the Black Ones struggled a prisoner. He made a desperate and hopeless fight of it, but they dragged him to the edge of the pit before they stopped. The morgels, intent upon their promised prey, crouched beneath them.

  Five steps above were two figures to whom the guards looked for instructions. One was a man of their race, of slender, handsome body and evil, coldly patrician face. His hand rested possessively upon the arm of his companion.

  It was Thrala who stood beside him, her head proudly erect. The curves of laughter were gone from her lips; there was only sorrow and resignation to be seen there now. But her spirit burned like a white flame in her eyes.

  “Look!” her warder ordered. “Does not Kepta keep his promises? Shall we give Dandtan into the jaws of our slaves, or will you take back certain words of yours, Lady Thrala?”

  The prisoner answered for her: “Kepta, son of vileness, Thrala is not for you. Remember, Beloved One"—he spoke directly to the Daughter—"the day of deliverance is at hand!”

  Garin felt a sudden strange emptiness at the ease with which the prisoner had called Thrala “beloved.”

  “I await Thrala’s answer,” Kepta demanded. And her answer he got.

  “Beast among beasts, you may send Dandtan to his death, you may heap all manner of insults and evil upon me, but still I say the Daughter is not for your touch. Rather will I cut the line of life with my own hands, taking upon me the punishment of the Elder Ones.” She lowered her gaze to the prisoner. “To you, Dandtan, I say farewell. We shall meet again beyond the Curtain of Time.” She held out her hands to him.

  “Thrala, dear one—!” One of his guards slapped a hand over the prisoner’s mouth, putting an end to his words.

  But now Thrala was looking beyond him, straight at the grill which sheltered Garin. Kepta pulled at her arm to gain her attention. “Watch! Thus do my enemies die. To the pit with him!”

  The guards forced their prisoner toward the edge of the pit and the morgels crept closer, their eyes fixed upon that young, writhing body. Garin knew that he must take no hand in the game. The Ana was tugging him to the right and there was an open archway leading to a balcony running around the side of the pit.

  Those below were too entranced by the coming sport to notice the invader. But Thrala glanced up and Garin thought that she sighted him. Something in her attitude attracted Kepta; he too looked up. For a moment he stared in stark amazement, and then he thrust the Daughter through the door behind him.

  “Ho, outlander! Welcome to the Caves. So the Folk have meddled—”

  “Greeting, Kepta.” Garin himself was surprised at the words which fell so easily from his tongue. “I have come as was promised, to remain until the Black Throne is no more.”

  “Not even the morgels boast before their prey lies limp in their jaws,” flashed Kepta. “What manner of beast are you?”

  “A clean beast, Kepta, which you are not. Bid your two-legged morgels loose the youth, lest I grow impatient” He swung the green rod into view.

  Kepta’s eyes narrowed but his smile did not fade. “I have heard of old that the Ancient Ones do not destroy—”

  “As an outlander I am not bound by their limits,” retorted Garin, “as you will learn if you do not call off your stinking pack.”

  The master of the Caves laughed. “You are as the Tand, a fool without a brain. Never shall you see the Caverns again—”

  “You have a choice, Kepta. Make it quickly.”

  The Black Chief seemed to consider. Then he waved to his men. “Release him,” he ordered. “Outlander, you are braver than I thought. We might bargain—”

  “Thrala goes forth from the Caves and the black throne is dust those are the terms of the Caverns.”

  “And if we do not accept?”

  “Then Thrala goes forth, the throne is dust, and Tav shall have a day of judging such as it has never had before.”


  “You challenge me?”

  Again words which seemed to have their origin elsewhere came to Garin. “As in Yu-Lac, I shall take—”

  Before Kepta could reply there was trouble in the pit Dandtan, freed by his guards, was crossing the floor in running leaps with the morgels in hot pursuit. Garin threw himself flat on the balcony and dropped the jeweled strap of his belt over the lip.

  A moment later it snapped taut and he stiffened to an upward pull. Already Dandtan’s heels were above the snapping jaws of a morgel. The flier caught the youth around the shoulders and heaved. They rolled together against the wall.

  “They are gone! All of them!” Dandtan cried, as he regained his feet. He was right; the morgels howled below, but Kepta and his men had vanished.

  “Thrala!” Garin exclaimed.

  Dandtan nodded. “They have taken her back to the cells. They believe her safe there.”

  “Then they think wrong.” Garin stooped to pick up the green rod. His companion laughed.

  “We’d best start before they get prepared for us.”

  Garin picked up the Ana. “Which way?”

  Dandtan showed him a passage leading from behind the other door. Then he dogged into a side chamber to return with two of the winged cloaks and cloth hoods, so that they might pass as Black Ones.

  They went by the mouths of three side tunnels, all deserted. None disputed their going. All the Black Ones had withdrawn from this part of the Caves.

  Dandtan sniffed uneasily. “All is not well. I fear a trap.”

  “While we can pass, let us.”

  The passage curved to the right and they came into an oval room. Again Dandtan shook his head but ventured no protest. Instead he flung open a door and hurried down a short hall.

  It seemed to Garin that there were strange rustlings and squeakings in the dark corners. Then Dandtan stopped so short that the American ran into him.

  “Here is the guard room—and it is empty!”

  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 lined on both sides with barred doors.

  “The cells,” he explained, and withdrew a bar across one door. The portal swung back and they pushed within.

  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 Garin, 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 his mind, for he caught him by the arm.

  “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 in 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.

  “Do not touch the door,” Thrala advised, “only its hinges.”

  Beneath the tip of the rod the stone became spongy and flaked away. Dandtan and Garin 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 cannot conquer so easily, nor that which run 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 the 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 their 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 are you doing?” 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 Four

  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 Garin’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’s 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, whispering, “I will try the door.”

  In a moment he was back. “It is open.”

  “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 Dandtan’s hand and leaned against the rock. He was sick and dizzy. The long, deep wounds on his arm and shoulder ached with a biting throb.