fog.
Dandtan turned away, his face white with horror. Garin’s hands were over his ears to shut out that crying.
At last it was quiet; there was no more movement by the towers. Urg placed a sphere of rosy light upon the nearest machine and flipped it out into the enemy camp. As if it were a magnet it drew the green tendrils of gas to itself and left the air clear. Here and there lay shrunken, livid shapes, the towers brooding over them.
One of the Folk burst into their midst, a woman of Thrala’s following.
“Haste!” She clawed at Garin. “Kepta takes Thrala!”
She ran wildly back the way she had come, with the American pounding at her heels. They burst into the Hall of Thrones and saw a struggling group before the dais.
Garin heard someone howl like an animal, became aware the sound came from his own throat. For the second time his fist found its mark on Kepta’s face. With a shriek of rage the Black One released Thrala and sprang at Garin, his nails tearing gashes in the flier’s face. Twice Garin twisted free and sent bone-crushing blows into the other’s ribs. Then he got the grip he wanted and his fingers closed around Kepta’s throat. In spite of the Black One’s struggles he held on until a limp body rolled beneath him.
Panting, Garin pulled himself up from the blood-stained floor and grabbed the arm of the Jade Throne for support
“Garin!” Thrala’s arms were about him, her pitying fingers on his wounds. And in that moment he forgot Dandtan, forgot everything he had steeled himself to remember. She was in his arms and his mouth sought hers possessively. Nor was she unresponsive, but yielded as a flower yields to the wind.
“Garin!” she whispered softly. Then, almost shyly, she broke away.
Beyond her stood Dandtan, his face white, his mouth tight. Garin remembered. And a little mad with pain and longing, he dropped his eyes, trying not to see the loveliness that was Thrala.
“So, outlander, Thrala flies to your arms—”
Garin turned quickly. Kepta was hunched on the broad seat of the jet throne.
“No, I am not dead, outlander—nor shall you kill me, as you think to do. I go now, but I shall return. We have met and hated, fought and died before—you and I. You were a certain Garan, Marshal of the Air Fleet of Yu-Lacon a vanished world, and I was Lord of Koom. That was in the days before the Ancient Ones pioneered space. You and I and Thrala, we are bound together and even fate cannot break those bonds. Farewell, Garin. And you, Thrala, remember the ending of that other Garan. It was not an easy one.”
With a last malicious chuckle, he leaned back in the throne. His battered body slumped. Then the hard lines of the throne blurred; it shimmered in the light. Abruptly then both it and its occupant were gone. They were staring at empty space, above which loomed the rose throne of the Ancient Ones.
“He spoke true,” murmured Thrala. “We have had other lives, other meetings—so will we meet again. But for the present he returns to the darkness that sent him forth. It is finished.”
Without warning, a low rumbling filled the Cavern; the walls rocked and swayed. Lizard and human, they huddled together until the swaying stopped. Finally a runner appeared with news that one of the Gibi had discovered that the Caves of Darkness had been sealed by an underground quake. The menace of the Black Ones was definitely at an end.
Although there were falls of rock within the Caverns and some of the passages were closed, few of the Folk suffered injury. Gibi scouts reported that the land about the entrance to the Caves had sunk, and that the River of Gold, thrown out of its bed, was fast filling this basin to form a lake.
As far as they could discover, none of the Black Ones had survived the battle and the sealing of the Caves. But they could not be sure that there was not a handful of outlaws somewhere within the confines of Tav.
The crater itself was changed. A series of raw hills had
Dandtan turned away, his face white with horror. Garin’s hands were over his ears to shut out that crying.
At last it was quiet; there was no more movement by the towers. Urg placed a sphere of rosy light upon the nearest machine and flipped it out into the enemy camp. As if it were a magnet it drew the green tendrils of gas to itself and left the air clear. Here and there lay shrunken, livid shapes, the towers brooding over them.
One of the Folk burst into their midst, a woman of Thrala’s following.
“Haste!” She clawed at Garin. “Kepta takes Thrala!”
She ran wildly back the way she had come, with the American pounding at her heels. They burst into the Hall of Thrones and saw a struggling group before the dais.
Garin heard someone howl like an animal, became aware the sound came from his own throat. For the second time his fist found its mark on Kepta’s face. With a shriek of rage the Black One released Thrala and sprang at Garin, his nails tearing gashes in the flier’s face. Twice Garin twisted free and sent bone-crushing blows into the other’s ribs. Then he got the grip he wanted and his fingers closed around Kepta’s throat. In spite of the Black One’s struggles he held on until a limp body rolled beneath him.
Panting, Garin pulled himself up from the blood-stained floor and grabbed the arm of the Jade Throne for support
“Garin!” Thrala’s arms were about him, her pitying fingers on his wounds. And in that moment he forgot Dandtan, forgot everything he had steeled himself to remember. She was in his arms and his mouth sought hers possessively. Nor was she unresponsive, but yielded as a flower yields to the wind.
“Garin!” she whispered softly. Then, almost shyly, she broke away.
Beyond her stood Dandtan, his face white, his mouth tight. Garin remembered. And a little mad with pain and longing, he dropped his eyes, trying not to see the loveliness that was Thrala.
“So, outlander, Thrala flies to your arms—”
Garin turned quickly. Kepta was hunched on the broad seat of the jet throne.
“No, I am not dead, outlander—nor shall you kill me, as you think to do. I go now, but I shall return. We have met and hated, fought and died before—you and I. You were a certain Garan, Marshal of the Air Fleet of Yu-Lacon a vanished world, and I was Lord of Koom. That was in the days before the Ancient Ones pioneered space. You and I and Thrala, we are bound together and even fate cannot break those bonds. Farewell, Garin. And you, Thrala, remember the ending of that other Garan. It was not an easy one.”
With a last malicious chuckle, he leaned back in the throne. His battered body slumped. Then the hard lines of the throne blurred; it shimmered in the light. Abruptly then both it and its occupant were gone. They were staring at empty space, above which loomed the rose throne of the Ancient Ones.
“He spoke true,” murmured Thrala. “We have had other lives, other meetings—so will we meet again. But for the present he returns to the darkness that sent him forth. It is finished.”
Without warning, a low rumbling filled the Cavern; the walls rocked and swayed. Lizard and human, they huddled together until the swaying stopped. Finally a runner appeared with news that one of the Gibi had discovered that the Caves of Darkness had been sealed by an underground quake. The menace of the Black Ones was definitely at an end.
Although there were falls of rock within the Caverns and some of the passages were closed, few of the Folk suffered injury. Gibi scouts reported that the land about the entrance to the Caves had sunk, and that the River of Gold, thrown out of its bed, was fast filling this basin to form a lake.
As far as they could discover, none of the Black Ones had survived the battle and the sealing of the Caves. But they could not be sure that there was not a handful of outlaws somewhere within the confines of Tav.
The crater itself was changed. A series of raw hills had
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