Read The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories for Free Online

continued the Daughter, disdainfully. “He knew that his monstrosities would not attack. Only in the light are they to be dreaded—and then only because of the horror of their forms.”
    Again the Ana tugged at its master’s belt. They shuffled into the narrow passage beyond. But there remained the sense of things about them in the dark, things which Thrala continued to insist were harmless and yet which filled Garin with loathing.
    Then they entered the far corridor into which led the three halls and which ended in the morgel pit. Here, Garin believed, was the greatest danger from the morgels.
    The Ana stopped short, dropping back against Garin’s thigh. In the blackness appeared two yellow disks, sparks of saffron in their depths. Garin thrust the rod into Thrala’s hands.
    “What do you?” she demanded.
    “I’m going to clear the way. It’s too dark to use the rod against moving creatures.…” He flung the words over his shoulder as he moved toward the unwinking eyes.
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    Escape from the Caves
    Keeping his eyes upon those soulless yellow disks, Garin snatched off his hood, wadding it into a ball. Then he sprang. His fingers slipped on smooth hide, sharp fangs ripped his forearm, blunt nails scraped his ribs. A foul breath puffed into his face and warm slaver trickled down his neck and chest. But his plan succeeded.
    The cap was wedged into the morgel’s throat and the beast was slowly choking. Blood dripped from the flyer’s torn flesh, but he held on grimly until he saw the light fade from those yellow eyes. The dying morgel made a last mad plunge for freedom, dragging his attacker along the rock floor. Then Garin felt the heaving body rest limply against his own. He staggered against the wall, panting.
    “Garin!” cried Thrala. Her questing hand touched his shoulder and crept to his face. “It is well with you?”
    “Yes,” he panted, “let us go on.”
    Thrala’s fingers had lingered on his arm and now she walked beside him, her cloak making whispering sounds as it brushed against the wall and floor.
    “Wait,” she cautioned suddenly. “The morgel pit.…”
    Dandtan slipped by them. “I will try the door.”
    In a moment he was back. “It is open,” he whispered.
    “Kepta believes,” mused Thrala, “that we will keep to the safety of the gallery. Therefore let us go through the pit. The morgels will be gone to better hunting grounds.”
    Through the pit they went. A choking stench arose from underfoot and they trod very carefully. They climbed the stairs on the far side unchallenged, Dandtan leading.
    “The rod here, Garin,” he called; “this door is barred.”
    Garin pressed the weapon into the other’s hand and leaned against the rock. He was sick and dizzy. The long, deep wounds on his arm and shoulder were stiffening and ached with a biting throb.
    When they went on he panted with effort. They still moved in darkness and his distress passed unnoticed.
    “This is wrong,” he muttered, half to himself. “We go too easily—”
    And he was answered out of the blackness. “Well noted, outlander. But you go free for the moment, as does Thrala and Dandtan. Our full accounting is not yet. And now, farewell, until we meet again in the Hall of Thrones. I could find it in me to applaud your courage, outlander. Perhaps you will come to serve me yet.”
    Garin turned and threw himself toward the voice, bringing up with bruising force against rock wall. Kepta laughed.
    “Not with the skill of the bull Tand will you capture me.”
    His second laugh was cut cleanly off, as if a door had been closed. In silence the three hurried up the ramp. Then, as through a curtain, they came into the light of Tav.
    Thrala let fall her drab cloak, stood with arms outstretched in the crater land. Her sparkling robe sheathed her in glory and she sang softly, rapt in her own delight. Then Dandtan put his arm about her; she clung to him, staring about as might a beauty-bewildered child.
    Garin