The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

cloak making whispering sounds as it brushed against the wall and floor.
    “Wait,” she cautioned suddenly. “The morgel pit.…”
    Dandtan slipped by them. “I will try the door.”
    In a moment he was back. “It is open,” he whispered.
    “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 the other’s hand and leaned against the rock. He was sick and dizzy. The long, deep wounds on his arm and shoulder were stiffening and ached with a biting throb.
    When they went on he panted with effort. They still moved in darkness and his distress passed unnoticed.
    “This is wrong,” he muttered, half to himself. “We go too easily—”
    And he was answered out of the blackness. “Well noted, outlander. But you go free for the moment, as does Thrala and Dandtan. Our full accounting is not yet. And now, farewell, until we meet again in the Hall of Thrones. I could find it in me to applaud your courage, outlander. Perhaps you will come to serve me yet.”
    Garin turned and threw himself toward the voice, bringing up with bruising force against rock wall. Kepta laughed.
    “Not with the skill of the bull Tand will you capture me.”
    His second laugh was cut cleanly off, as if a door had been closed. In silence the three hurried up the ramp. Then, as through a curtain, they came into the light of Tav.
    Thrala let fall her drab cloak, stood with arms outstretched in the crater land. Her sparkling robe sheathed her in glory and she sang softly, rapt in her own delight. Then Dandtan put his arm about her; she clung to him, staring about as might a beauty-bewildered child.
    Garin wondered dully how he would be able to make the journey back to the Caverns when his arm and shoulder were eaten with a consuming fire. The Ana crept closer to him, peering into his white face.
    They were aroused by a howl from the Caves. Thrala cried out and Dandtan answered her unspoken question. “They have set the morgels on our trail!”
    The howl from the Caves was echoed from the forest. Morgels before and behind them! Garin might set himself against one, Dandtan another, and Thrala could defend herself with the rod, but in the end the pack would kill them.
    “We shall claim protection from the Gibi of the cliff. By the law they must give us aid,” said Thrala, as, turning up her long robe, she began to run lightly. Garin picked up her cloak and drew it across his shoulder to hide his welts. When he could no longer hold her pace she must not guess the reason for his falling behind.
    Of that flight through the forest the flyer afterward remembered little. At last the gurgle of water broke upon his pounding ears, as he stumbled along a good ten lengths behind his companions. They had come to the edge of the wood along the banks of the river.
    Without hesitation Thrala and Dandtan plunged into the oily flood, swimming easily for the other side. Garin dropped the cloak, wondering if, once he stepped into the yellow stream, he would ever be able to struggle out again. Already the Ana was in, paddling in circles near the shore and pleading with him to follow. Wearily Garin waded out.
    The water, which washed the blood and sweat from his aching body, was faintly brackish and stung his wounds to life. He could not fight the sluggish current and it bore him downstream, well away from where the others landed.
    But at last he managed to win free, crawling out near where a smaller stream joined the river. There he lay panting, face down upon the moss. And there they found him, water dripping from his bedraggled finery, the Ana stroking his muddied hair. Thrala cried out with concern and pillowed his head on her knee while Dandtan examined his wounds.
    “Why did you not tell us?” demanded Thrala.
    He did not try to answer, content to lie there, her arms supporting him. Dandtan disappeared into the forest, returning soon, his hands filled with a mass of crushed leaves. With these he plastered Garin’s wounds.
    “You’d better go on,” Garin warned.
    Dandtan shook his head. “The morgels can not swim. If they cross, they must go to the bridge, and that is