The towers were swinging their tips toward the entrance. Dandtan ordered the screen wedged tightly into place.
Outside, the morgel Dandtan had stunned got groggily to its feet. When it had limped half the distance back to its master, Kepta gave the order to fire. The broad beam of black light from the tip of the nearest tower caught the beast head on. There-was a chilling scream of agony, and where the morgel had been gray ashes drifted on the wind.
A loud crackling arose as the black beam struck the screen and was reflected off. Green grass beneath seared away, leaving only parched earth and naked blue soil. Those within the Cavern crouched behind their frail protection, half blinded by the light from the seared grass, coughing from the chemical-ridden fumes which curled about the cracks of the rock.
Then the beam faded out. Thin smoke plumed from the tips of the towers and steam arose from the blackened ground. Dandtan drew a deep breath.
"It held!" he cried, betraying at last the fear which had ridden him.
Men of the Folk dragged engines of tubing before the screen, while others brought forth the globes of green liquid. Dandtan stood aside, as if this matter were the business of the Folk alone, and Garin recalled that the Ancient Ones were opposed to the taking of life.
Trar was in command now. At his orders the globes were placed on spoon-shaped holders. Loopholes in the screen clicked open. Trar brought down his hand in signal. The globes arose lazily, sliding through the loopholes and floating out toward the towers.
One, aimed short, struck the ground where the fire had burned it bare, and broke. The liquid came forth, sluggishly, forming a gray-green gas as the air struck it. Another spiral of gas arose almost at the foot of one of the towers— and then another. . . .
Quickly a tortured screaming followed which soon faded to a weak yammering. They could see shapes, no longer human or animal, staggering about in the 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-Lac on 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 appeared in the central plain. The pool of boiling mud had vanished and trees in the forest lay flat, as if cut by a giant scythe.
Upon their return to the cliff city, the Gibi found most of their wax skyscrapers in ruins, but they set about rebuilding without complaint. The squirrel-farmers emerged from their burrows and were again busy in the fields.
Garin felt out of place in all the activity that filled the Caverns. More than ever he was the outlander with no true roots in Tav. Restlessly, he explored the Caverns, spending many hours in the Place of Ancestors, where he studied those men of the outer world who had preceded him into this weird land.
One night when he came back to his chamber he found Dandtan and Trar awaiting him there. There was a curious hardness in Dandtan's attitude, a somber sobriety in Trar's carriage.
"Have you sought the Hall of Women since the battle?" demanded the son of the Ancient Ones abruptly.
"No," retorted Garin shortly, wondering if Dandtan was accusing him of double dealing.
"Have you sent a message to Thrala?"
Garin held back his rising temper. "I have not ventured where I cannot."
Dandtan nodded to Trar as if his suspicions had been confibrmed. "You see how it stands, Trar."
Trar shook his head slowly. "But never has the summoning been at fault—"
"You forget," Dandtan reminded him sharply. "It was once—and the penalty was exacted. So shall it be again."
Garin looked from one to the other, confused. Dandtan seemed possessed of a certain ruthless anger, but Trar was manifestly unhappy.
"It must come after council, the Daughter willing," the Lord of the Folk said.
Dandtan strode toward the door. "Thrala is not to know. Assemble the council tonight; Meanwhile, see that he"— he jerked his thumb toward Garin—"does not leave this room."
Thus Garin became a prisoner under the guard of the Folk, unable to discover of what Dandtan accused him, or how he had aroused the hatred of the Cavern ruler. Unless Dandtan's jealousy had been aroused and he was determined to rid himself of a rival.
Believing this, the American went willingly to the chamber where the judges waited. Dandtan sat at the head of a long table, Trar at his right and lesser nobles of the Folk beyond.
"You know the charge." Dandtan's w
ords were tipped with venom as Garin came to stand before him. "Out of his own mouth has this outlander condemned himself. Therefore I ask that you decree for him the fate of that outlander of the second calling who rebelled against the summoning."
"The outlander has admitted his fault?" questioned one of the Folk.
Trar inclined his head sadly. "He did."
As Garin opened his mouth to demand a statement of the charge against him, Dandtan spoke again:
"What say you,.Lords?"
For a long moment they sat in silence and then they bobbed their lizard heads in assent. "Do as you desire, Dweller in the Light."
Dandtan smiled without mirth. "Look, outlander." He passed his hand over the glass of the seeing mirror set in the table top. "This is the fate of a rebel—"
In the shining surface Garin saw pictured a break in Tav's wall. At its foot stood a group of men of the Ancient Ones, and in their midst struggled a prisoner. They were forcing him to climb the crater wall. Garin watdhed him reach the lip and crawl over, to stagger across the steaming rock, dodging the scalding vapor of hot springs, until he pitched down in the slimy mud.
"Such was his ending, and so will you end—"
The calm brutality of that statement aroused Garin's anger. "Rather would I die that way than linger in this den," he cried hotly. "You, who owe your life to me, would send me to such a death without even telling me of what I am accused. Little is there to choose between you and Kepta, after all—except that he was an open enemy!"
Dandtan sprang to his feet, but Trar caught his arm.
"He speaks fairly. Ask him why he will not fulfill the summoning."
While Dandtan hesitated, Garin leaned across the table, flinging his words, weapon-like, straight into that cold face. "I'll admit that I love Thrala—have loved her since that moment when I saw her on the steps of the morgel pit in the Caves. Since when has it become a crime to love that which may not be yours—if you do not try to take it?" Trar released Dandtan, his golden eyes gleaming. "If you love her, claim her. It is your right." "Do I not know"—Garin turned to him—"that she is Dandtan's? Thran had no idea of Dandtan's survival when he laid his will upon her. Shall I stoop to holding her to an unwelcome bargain? Let her go to the one she loves. . . ." Dandtan's face was livid, and his hands, resting on the table, trembled. One by one the Lords of the Folk slipped away, leaving the two face to face.
"And I thought to order you to your death." Dandtan's whisper was husky as it emerged between dry lips. "Garin, we thought you knew—and, knowing, had refused her."
"Knew what?"
"That I am Thran's son—and Thrala's brother."
The floor swung beneath Garin's unsteady feet. Dandtan's hands were warm on his shoulders.
"I am a fool," said the American slowly.
Dandtan smiled. "A very honorable fool! Now you get to Thrala, who deserves to hear the full of this tangle."
So it was, with Dandtan by his side, that Garin walked for the second time down that hallway, to pass the golden curtains and stand in the presence of the Daughter. She came straight from her cushions into his arms when she read what was in his face. They needed no words.
And in that hour began Garin's life in Tav.
PART TWO
Chapter One
Lord of Yu-Lac
Often have I (who was Garin Featherstone in the world beyond the Mist Barrier, and am now Garan of the Flame, mate to that Royal Lady, Thrala, Daughter of the Ancient Ones) listened to the half-forgotten tales of that regal race who fled from a dying planet across the void of space to land upon the antarctic continent of our young world and blast out there the great crater of Tav for their future dwelling place.
From time to time, we are told, they renewed the vigor of their line by calling certain men from the world outside the barriers they had erected. I had been one of those so called. But I came in a later age and in a dark time. For evil had come into the crater and conflict riven apart the dwellers therein. And now at present, since that crushing defeat we wreaked with the help of outraged nature upon Kepta, Lord of the Black Flame, and those who followed him, but two of the Ancient Race remain, my lady wife and her brother Dandtan.
At the moment of his overthrow Kepta had made certain dark promises concerning our uncertain future and also some gibing reference to the far past which had caught my interest. For he said that the three of us, Thrala, Kepta, and I, were bound together. We had lived and fought before, even as we would live and fight again.
There is a Garan who lies in the Cavern of the Sleepers and whose story Thrala has told me. But before him long before—there were others.
For when I questioned the Daughter about Kepta's words, she took me into one of the curious bubble-like rooms where are mirrors of seeing embedded in tables. And there she seated herself on a cushioned bench, drawing me down beside her.
"Far and long have we come, beloved," she said softly, "but not so far or not so long mat I cannot recall the beginning. And you remember?"
"Nothing," I answered, my eyes on the mirror.
She sighed. "Perhaps that is but just—mine was the fault —so mine the burden of memory. What we did, we two, in the great city of Yu-Lac on the vanished world of Krand, has lain between us for long—long. It being gone at last, I half fear to summon it again."
I arose abruptly.
"Let it be then."
"Nay!" she caught my hand. "We have paid the price, three times over have we paid it. Once in Yu-Lac and twice in the Caverns. Our unhappiness is gone, and now it pleases me to look again upon the most splendid act I have ever witnessed. Behold, my Lord."
She raised her slender hands above the mirror. It misted.
I stood on a fancifully carved balcony of opalescent stone looking down upon a fantastic city not yet awakened from the hours of sleep. In the rosy sky, strange to my half-earthly eyes and yet familiar, were the first golden strands of earthly dawn. Yu-Lac, the Mighty, lay below me and I was Lord Garan, Marshal of the Emperor's Air Fleet, peer of the Empire.
By birth I had no right to either title or position, for my mother had been a lady of the court and my father an officer. They broke the law forbidding mating between different clans and castes by their secret marriage and so doomed me from birth to be one of the wards of the state and the lowliest of the low.
Luckily for me, and those unfortunates like me, the Emperor Fors, when he ascended the Rose Throne in the Palace of Light, issued a decree opening army service to state wards. In my fifteenth year I made my choice and submitted myself to the military brand.
The life was a hard one, but it was escape from far worse and—having some ambition and ability, doubtless inherited from my father—I rose step by step. Fourteen years later I was Marshal of the Imperial Air Fleet and a military lord, created so by the Emperor's own hand.
But the soldier who stood on the balcony, looking down upon the wondrous beauty which was Yu-Lac in the dawn, was neither happy nor contented. All his hard-won honors were no more to him than the diverse scars which seamed his flesh. For he had dared (though no man knew it) to raise his eyes and heart to one as far above him as Krand's red sun was above her yellow fields.
I, a veteran of countless small border wars and raiding parties, was as lovesick and despondent as the youngest and most callow recruit uneasily slumbering in the barracks below my tower. Though I resolutely put aside my unholy longing throughout the day, yet at night and in the dawning my memory and dreams broke loose from control, nor did I try too hard to leash them.
Like the penitent priests in the great temple of On I tortured myself by memories which inflicted twice the pain of any body hurt. By my companions I was counted a seasoned warrior, cold of heart and uninterested in aught but the pressing affairs of my office. And yet—
Three years— By On, could it be so long? Then I had been commander of the Emperor's flagship, the thrice happy vessel which was selected to bear the Lady Thrala from her temple school in Toran to her father's
crystal palace which crowned the central hill of Yu-Lac.
The Imperial Princess had been surrounded by the countless courtiers of her suite, but one blessed night she had slipped away from them all and entered the control cabin where it had been my heaven-directed whim to stand watch alone. Thrala, not Imperial Highness, had she been when our snatched hour was over.
Twice had I seen her since. Once on the day when I had knelt at the Emperor's feet to receive the staff of my office and had dared to raise my eyes to that golden throne at his right hand. And the second? It was in the royal pleasure gardens where I was awaiting an audience. She had passed with her ladies. Who was I with the military brand seared deep in my shoulder muscle to look upon the Peerless One?
The castes of Krand were rigidly ordered. A man might rise to honor in any one but he could not pass into another. A peasant might become a lord of the land and a noble but neither he nor his sons might serve at court nor in the fleet.
So a soldier of the forces, even though he bore a title, had no right to long for a daughter of the Learned Ones. They were our rulers and great nobles, far above the commoners in the breadth of their knowledge. They had as much ability to harness and bend to their will both men and natural forces as I had over the mindless slaves of the fields, that subhuman race which the Learned Ones had produced in the laboratories. They were a race apart, blessed —or cursed—with superhuman powers.
But Thrala was my beloved and all the decrees of the Emperor and the chains of ancient custom could not alter that fact nor blot her image from my heart I think I would have finished out my life, content at last only to worship my dreams of her, had not brooding Fate decided a far different future for all the pigmy men creatures who crawled about that globe which was Krand.
That morning I was not left long to indulge in self-pity and fruitless longings. A tiny bell chimed in the room behind me, giving notice that someone desired to enter my sleeping chamber. I crossed to the disk on the wall and ran my hand across it. Upon its polished surface then appeared the likeness of my aide-de-camp, that young rascal, Anatan of Hoi.
Norton, Andre - Novel 19 Page 5
