On the floor lay the caller. The scarred guard had fled. Furtig could hear his wild squealing, doubtless sounding the alarm. It had been a tight fit, that push through the torn mesh, and his skin had smarting scratches. But he had made it, and now he caught up the caller.
He almost dropped it again, for the band felt warm, not cold as metal should. And the buzzing was louder. How long did he have before that fleeing guard re-turned with reinforcements?
Furtig, the caller against his chest, kicked aside the bars sealing the door and rushed in. He reached Foskatt, hooked a claw in the other’s bonds to cut them. But seeing the extent of his tribesman’s wounds, he feared the future. It was plain that with that injury Foskatt could not walk far.
“The caller—give it to me—“ Foskatt stared at the thing Furtig held. But when he tried to lift a hand it moved like a half-dead thing, not answering his will, and he gave an impatient cry.
“Touch it,” he ordered. “There is a small hole on the side, put your finger into that!”
“We must get away—there is no time,” Furtig pro-tested.
“Touch it!” Foskatt said louder. “It will get us out of here.”
“The warrior is mad,” growled the other prisoner. “He talks of a thing coming through the walls to save him. You waste your time with him!”
“Touch it!”
Foskatt made no sense, yet Furtig found himself turning the caller over to find the hole. It was there, but when he tried to insert a finger, he discovered that his digit was far too thick to enter. He was about to try the tip of a claw when Foskatt batted clumsily at his arm, those deep ridges in his flesh, cut by the bonds, bleeding now.
“No—don’t use metal! Hold it closer—hold it for me!”
Furtig went to his knees as Foskatt struggled up. Foskatt bent forward, opened his mouth, and put forth his tongue, aiming its tip for the hole in the cube.
Foskatt’s head jerked as if that touch was painful, but he persisted, holding his tongue with an effort which was manifest throughout his body. At last, it seemed, he could continue no longer. His head fell back, and he rested his limp weight against Furtig’s shoulder, his eyes closed.
“You have wasted time,” snarled the other prisoner. “Do you leave us now to be meat, or do you give me a fighting chance?” There was no note of pleading in his voice. Furtig had not expected any; it was not in their breed to beg from a stranger. But he settled Foskatt back, the caller beside him, and went to cut the other’s bonds.
When those were broken, he returned to Foskatt. The stranger had been right. There was no chance of escape through these burrows, which the Rattons knew much better than he. He had wasted time. Yet Foskatt’s urgency had acted on him strongly.
The stranger whipped to the door. Even as he reached it, Furtig could hear the squealing clamor of gathering Rations. He had failed. The only result of his attempt at rescue was that he had joined the other two in captivity. But he had his claws at least, and the Ratton forces would pay dearly for their food when they came at him.
“Fool,” hissed the stranger, showing his fangs. “There is no way out now!”
Foskatt stirred. “The nimbler will come—“ His mutter, low as it was, reached the stranger, and his snarl became a growl, aimed at them both.
“Rumbler! He has blatted of none else! But his wits are wrong. There is no—“
What he would have added was forgotten as he suddenly whirled and crouched before the door, his bare hands raised. However, for some reason, the Rattons did not rush the prisoners at once, as Furtig had expected. Perhaps they were trying to work out some method whereby they could subdue their captives without undue loss on their part. If they knew the People at all, they must also realize that the Rattons on the first wave in would die.
Furtig listened, trying to gauge from sounds what they were doing. He did not know what weapons the Rations had besides those nature had given them. But since they frequented the lairs, they might have been as lucky as Gammage in discovering Demon secrets. Foskatt pushed at the floor, tried to raise him-self. Furtig went to his aid.
“Be ready,” his tribesman said. “The nimbler—when it comes—we must be ready—“
His certainty that something was coming almost convinced Furtig that the other knew what he was talking about. But how that action of tongue to cube could bring anything—
The stranger was busy at the door. He had pulled some litter together, was striving to force into place rusty metal rods as a bar lock. Even if that worked, it could not save them for long, but any action helped. Furtig went to aid him.
“This should slow them—a little—“ the stranger said as they finished as well as they could.
He turned then and padded across the room to stand beneath the wall grill high overhead. “Where does that lead? You were behind it when you signalled—“
“There is a tunnel there. But the opening is too narrow.”
The stranger had kept one of the pieces of metal, too short to be a part of their barrier. Now he struck that against the wall in a rasping blow. It did not leave more than a streak of rust to mark its passage. There was no beating their way through that wall.
He strode back and forth across the cell, his tail lashing, uttering small growls, which now and then approached the fury of battle yowls. Furtig knew the same fear of being trapped. He flexed his fingers, test-ed the strength of his claw fastenings. In his throat rumbled an answering growl. Then the stranger came to a halt before him, those blue eyes upon Furtig’s weapons.
“Be ready to cut the net with those.” His words had the force of an order.
“The net?”
“They toss nets to entangle one from a distance.
That was how they brought me down. They must have taken your comrade in the same fashion. He was already here when they dragged me in. It is only be-cause they were awaiting their Elders that they did not kill us at once. They spoke among themselves much, but who can understand their vile cluttering? One or two made signs—there was something they wished to learn. And their suggestion”—the hair on his tail was bushed now—“was that they would have a painful way of asking. Die in battle when they come, warrior, or face what is worse.”
The Rattons were trying to force the door now.
How long would the barrier hold?
Furtig tensed, ready to face the inpour when the weight of those outside would break through. Foskatt pulled himself up, one hand closing upon the caller, raising it to his ear. His eyes glowed.
“It comes! Gammage is right! The rumblers will serve us! Stand ready—“
Then Furtig caught it also, a vibration creeping through the stone flooring, echoing dully from the walls about them. It was unlike anything he had experienced before, though it carried some tones of storm thunder. It grew louder, outside the door, and once more the enemy squealed in ragged chorus.
“Stand back—away—“ Foskatt’s husky whisper barely reached Furtig. The stranger could not have heard it, but, so warned, Furtig sprang, grasped the other’s arm, and pulled him to one side. The stranger rounded on him with a cry of rage, until he saw Foskatt’s warning gesture.
As if some supreme effort supplied strength, Foskatt was sitting up, the caller now at his mouth, his tongue ready, extended as if he awaited some signal.
Then—there was a squealing from the Rattons which became a hysterical screeching. These were not battle cries but rather a response to fear, to a terrible, overpowering fear.
Something struck against the wall with a force that certainly the Rattons could not exert. Thudding blows followed, so close on one another that the noise became continuous. The door broke, pushed in, but that was not all. Around its frame ran cracks in the wall itself; small chunks flaked off.
Together Furtig and the stranger backed away. No Ratton had sprung through the opening. The prisoners could see only a solid, dark surface there, as if an-other wall had been erected beyond. Still those ponderous blows fell, more of the wall broke away.
Yet Foskatt, showing no signs of fear, watched this as if it were what he expected. Then he spoke, raising his voice so they could hear over the sounds of that pounding.
“This is one of the Demons’ servants from the old days. It obeys my will through this.” He indicated the caller. “When it breaks through to us we must be ready to mount on top. And it will carry us out of this evil den. But we must be swift, for these servants have a limit on their period of service. When this”—again he brought the caller their notice—“ceases to buzz, these servants die, and we cannot again awaken them. Nor do we ever know how long that life will last.”