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oarsmen poured into the cleft, led by Velia, and in the darkness the Pikhts rallied and came at them, snarling rage. For a little while there was a black madness of battle, a chaos of yells and oaths and death cries. In the end Lycon won through, and the Pikhts scattered like rats before the sweep of thirsty blades.
    Before Lycon now was a dim-lit corridor, one wall set with barred doors. He cut down a screaming dwarf that plunged at him, dagger bared, and left the rest to Velia and the crew. Swiftly he raced along the passage, casting hasty glances into each cell as he passed. Captives stretched out imploring hands, begging for release, but Elak was not among them.
    Near the end of the corridor, one door was open. Lycon sprang over the threshold, saw a bare, empty cell with an iron slab ajar in the opposite wall. He went forward, sword dripping red on the stones as he lifted it.
    Water was lapping softly nearby.…
     
    6. THE NIGHT OF GODS
    Elak stepped through the portal and found himself in a narrow passage. Gray light bathed him. In the distance he saw a sparkling surface that rippled in the cold glow.
    And suddenly he heard Dalan’s voice. It came softly from empty air, urgent, peremptory, calling his name.
    “Elak!
Elak
!”
    Searching the bare wallswith incredulous eyes, Elak whispered, “Dalan? Where are you?”
    The Druid’s voice rang out sharply. “No time now, Elak—the Shadow comes as I speak. Leap into the pool—dive into it, now! At the end of the passage—”
    Still Elak hesitated. “But where are you—”
    “There’s not time to talk now! Hurry—”
    The stark urgency of Dalan’s words spurred Elak to action, sent him racing along the corridor. He checked himself sharply on the brink of a square basin. Little menace in that, or in the blue-green water that filled it. But within the pool dwelt horror. A Shadow lay upon it.
    The shadow of a man, cast by—nothing! An opaque outline that lay incredibly on the surface of the pool. And it darkened into blackness, while the gray luminescence of the corridor dimmed.
    “’Ware, Elak!”
    Dalan’s voice, loud in warning! Elak whirled, saw a dark-skinned dwarf almost upon him, pale eyes blazing, bestial face menacing. In the Pikht’s hand was a dagger.
    The two men smashed together on the pool’s brink, went down, clutching and tearing, the oily body of the dwarf squirming like a snake in Elak’s grasp. Steel grated on the stones. Elak’s fingers closed relentlessly on his opponent’s knife wrist.
    With a powerful lunge the Pikht brought his dagger down, its point touching Elak’s chest. The two rolled over, snarling oaths, and—dropped into emptiness!
    The pool took them—dragged them down into water icy as polar seas, blue as turquoise. Elak could see nothing but that illimitable blueness as he went down, choking for breath, battling against blinding panic. Was the pool bottomless?
    The sapphire tint deepened to indigo, foamed in fantastic patterns before Elak’s eyes. He realized abruptly that his was not water surrounding him—could not be, or he would have drowned minutes ago. There was a swift accelerating rush, and abruptly frightful cold, incredible agony, tore at the citadel of Elak’s brain. He was conscious of a
change
.
    Air rushed intohis lungs—air stale and dead, as though it had never been breathed, yet curiously refreshing. Dim, flickering shadows were all about him. And the swarthy devil-mask of the Pikht’s face swam into view from the vagueness.
    Pale eyes glared into Elak’s; the dagger came down viciously and buried itself in the ground as he writhed aside. He clutched at the dwarf’s wrist, missed, and flung himself bodily upon the Pikht, bearing the smaller man down by his weight. But he could not maintain a hold upon the muscular, oily body.
    Snarling, the dwarf lunged forward, teeth bared. Elak smashed his forehead into the Pikht’s face, felt blood spurt into his eyes, blinding him. He shook the scarlet drops