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    And he fell, a boneless huddle in the corner. His bearded face stared up blindly, and Elak saw that he was dead.
    A soft rustling made him turn. Very slowly, very gently, the iron door was swinging outward. From the vagueness beyond the portal a misty gray light crept into the cell.
    Elak heard the lapping of water.…
    Dalan’s black galley lay beached on Crenos Isle, battered and bruised by the storm. The same gale that had flung the ship ashore had sent Duke Granicor’s craft driving northward till it had been lost to view in the scud. Now the oarsmen were busy calking seams, mending the ruin the tempest had wrought.
    But Dalan, in the cabin, crouched over his crystal globe, his ugly face set in harsh lines. Velia and Lycon stood beside him, curiously eyeing the sphere, watching the flashing images that swept through its depths.
    “Elf’s magic is strong,” the Druid muttered. “He battles me at every step. But—”
    “Is Elak alive?” Velia asked anxiously. “Why won’t you tell me?”
    “Because I don’t know. Keep quiet, girl! Elf’s spells war with mine, and I see nothing—yet.”
    He peered into the shimmering sphere. Lycon squeezed Velia’s arm reassuringly. And suddenly Dalan expelled a long breath of relief.
    “So! He lives—see?”
    Within the crystal apicture grew, a tiny image of a beach flanked by towering gray rocks. On the slope a man lay bound and unconscious.
    “Praise Ishtar!” Lycon said. “Is he far? I’ll go after him—”
    “Wait,” the Druid commanded. “I know that beach. Elf’s allies, the Pikhts, have an underground temple there. And—look!”
    Velia gave a soft little cry. There was movement within the crystal; a man emerged from a cleft in one of the tall rocks and approached Elak’s prostrate figure. As they watched they saw Elak prodded to his feet by the Pikht, urged into the darkness of the fissure. For a second the sphere was a ball of jet; then it brightened and showed a long corridor cut out of solid rock. Three dark-skinned dwarfs thrust Elak forward.
    “Mider!” Dalan said tonelessly. “He’s in the temple! And that means he’s to be sacrificed to—”
    “Not if I know it!” Lycon snapped. “How far is this temple? The crew have swords and know how to use them. Tell me how to go, Dalan—north or south?” He was at the door, grinning unpleasantly as he figured the hilt of his blade. “I’ll butcher those little devils for you!”
    “Good! Go south, Lycon—and swiftly. You’ll know the place?”
    “I’ll know it. How far have we to go?”
    “Half an hour’s march, if you travel fast.” The Druid turned to his globe. “I’ll stay here. You must fight the Pikhts—but I battle Elf. And—” His huge hands swept down, gripped the crystal. “Hurry, Lycon! Elak’s in danger now—deadly danger!”
    Lycon thrust the door open, sprang on deck. His shrill voice shattered the morning calm. And in response the crew leaped to obey, dropping oar and hammer, taking up sword and ax, dropping over the rail to the beach. A half-naked, villainous-looking band, they trotted south, urged on by Lycon’s searing oaths and the flat of his blade.
    And with them came Velia, keeping always at Lycon’s side, eyes flashing with battle-hunger, lips parted in a smile that was not pleasant to see. They went so swiftly that they reached their destination before the time Dalan had allotted. Recognizing the black cleft in the stone, Lycon halted his men to take the lead.
    He stepped into thedarkness with a strange crawling of uneasiness, sword bared, blinding in an attempt to pierce the gloom. Something moved, and he cut at a menace he sensed rather than heard. Steel gashed his thigh, but he felt his blade rip through flesh and grind against bone. A squealing, scarcely human cry sound. In a frenzy of loathing he struck and struck again, cutting his way forward against soft bodies that resisted briefly and then broke and retreated under his onslaught.
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