Garan the Eternal (5 page)

“Greetings, Garin,” she returned slowly.

“You sent for me—” he prompted, eager to escape from this jewel box and the unattainable treasure it held.

“Yes.” The coldness of her tone was of an exile. “I wished to know how you fared and whether your wounds yet troubled you.”

He looked down at his own smooth flesh, cleanly healed by the wisdom of the Folk. “I am myself again and eager to be at such work as Dandtan can find for me. . . .”

Her robe seemed to hiss across the floor as she turned upon him. “Then you had better go—now,” she ordered.

And blindly he obeyed. She had spoken as if to a servant, one whom she could summon and dismiss by whim. Even if Dandtan held her love, she might have extended him her friendship. But he knew within him that friendship would be a poor crumb beside the feast for which his pulses pounded.

There was a pattering of feet behind him. So, she would
call him back! His pride sent him on. But it was Sera. Her head thrust forward until she truly resembled a reptile.

“Fool! Morgel!” she spat. “Even the Black Ones did not treat her so. Get you out of the Place of Women lest they divide your skin among them!”

Garin ignored her torrent of reproach as well as he could. He seized upon one of the Folk as guide and sought the laboratories. Far beneath the surface of Tav, where the light-motes shone ghostly in the gloom, they came into a place of ceaseless activity, where there were tables crowded with instruments, coils of glass and metal tubing, and other equipment and supplies. This was the focusing point for ceaseless streams of the Folk. On a platform at the far end, Garin saw the tall son of the Ancient Ones working on a framework of metal and shining crystal.

Dandtan glanced up in greeting as Garin joined him. Soon he was issuing instructions—and thus Garin became extra hands and feet for Dandtan. They worked feverishly to build their defenses against the lifting of the Mists. Since there was no day or night in the laboratories, they were able to work steadily for long periods. Twice they went to the Chamber of Renewing, but save for these trips to the upper ways they were not out of the laboratories through all those days. Of Thrala there was no sign, nor did any one speak of her.

The Cavern dwellers were depending upon two defenses: an evil green liquid, to be thrown in frail glass globes, and a screen charged with energy. Shortly before the lifting of the Mists, these arms were transported to the entrance and installed there. Dandtan and Garin made a last inspection.

“Kepta makes the mistake of underrating his enemies,” Dandtan reflected, feeling the edge of the screen caressingly. “When I was captured, on the day my people died, I was sent to the Black Ones’ laboratories so that their knowledge seekers might learn the secrets of the Ancient Ones. But I proved a better pupil than teacher and I discovered the defense against the Black Fire. After I had learned that, Kepta grew impatient with my supposed stupidity and tried to use me to force Thrala to his will. For that, as for other things, shall he pay—and the payment will not be in coin of his own striking. Let us think of that . . .” He turned to greet Urg and Trar and the other leaders of the Folk, who had approached unnoticed.

Among them stood Thrala, her gaze fixed upon the crystal
wall between them and the thinning Mist. She noticed Garin no more than she did the Anas playing with her train and the women whispering behind her. But Garin stepped back into the shadows—and what he saw was not weapons of war, but cloudy black hair and graceful white limbs veiled in splendor.

Urg and one of the other chieftains bore down upon the door lever. With a protesting squeak, the glass wall disappeared into the rock. The green of Tav beckoned them out to walk in its freshness; it was renewed with lusty life. But in all that expanse of meadow and forest there was a strange stillness.

“Post sentries,” ordered Dandtan. “The Black Ones will come soon.”

He beckoned Garin forward as he spoke to Thrala: “Let us go to the Hall of Thrones.”

But the Daughter did not answer his smile. “It is not fitting that we should spend time in idle talk. Let us go instead to call upon the help of those who have gone before us.” So speaking, she darted a glance at Garin as chill as the arctic lands beyond the lip of Tav, and then swept away with Sera bearing her train.

Dandtan stared at Garin. “What has happened between you two?”

Garin shook his head. “I don’t know. No man is born with an understanding of women—”

“But she is angered with you. You must know why.”

For a moment Garin was tempted to tell the truth: that he dared not break any barrier she chose to raise, lest he seize what in honor was none of his. But he shook his head mutely. Neither of them saw Thrala again until Death entered the Caverns.

Chapter Five

The Battle in the Caverns

Garin stood with Dandtan looking out into the plain of Tav. Some distance away were two slender steel-tipped towers which were, in reality, but hollow tubes filled with the Black Fire. Before these, dark-clad figures were busy.

“They seem to believe us already defeated. Let them think so,” commented Dandtan, touching the screen they had erected before the Cavern entrance.

As he spoke, Kepta swaggered through the tall grass to call a greeting: “Ho, rock dweller, I would like to speak with you—”

Duntan edged around the screen, Garin a pace behind.

“I see you, Kepta.”

“Good. I trust that your ears will serve you as well as your eyes. These are my terms: Give Thrala to me to dwell in my chamber and the outlander to provide sport for my captains. Make no resistance but throw open the Caverns so that I may take my rightful place in the Hall of Thrones. Do this and we shall be at peace. . ..”

Dandtan stood unmovingly before the screen. “And this is our reply: Return to the Caves; break down the bridge between your land and ours. Let no Black One come hither again, ever. . . .”

Kepta laughed. “So, that is your decision! Then this is what we shall do: Take Thrala, to be mine for a space and then go to my captains—”

Garin hurled himself forward, felt Kepta’s lips mash beneath his fist; his fingers were closing about the other’s throat as Dandtan, who was trying to pull him away from his prey, shouted a warning: “Watch out!”

A morgel had leaped from the grass, its teeth snapping about Garin’s wrist, forcing him to drop Kepta. Then Dandtan laid it senseless by a sharp blow with his belt.

On hands and knees Kepta crawled back to his men. The
lower part of his face was a red and dripping smear. He screamed an order with savage fury.

Dandtan drew the still raging Garin behind the screen. “Be a little prudent,” he panted. “Kepta can be dealt with in other ways than with bare hands.”

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 confirmed. “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 words 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 watched 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.