The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

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 The Black Ones have withdrawn and only death comes this way.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.
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    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 on his arm and now she walked beside him, her