Crypt-City of the Deathless One

Only once could a man defy the deathless guardians of the Ancient's tomb-city deep in Ganymede's hell-forest and expect to live. Yet Ed Garth had to return, had to lead men to certain doom—to keep a promise to a girl he would never see again.
Icy water splashed into Ed Garth's face and dripped down his tattered, grimy shirt. It was a tremendous effort to open his eyes. Fumes of the native Ganymedean rotgut liquor were swimming in his brain.
Someone was shaking him roughly. Garth's stocky body jerked convulsively. He struck out, his drink-swollen face twisted with frightened fury, and gasped, Ylgana! Vo m'trana al-khron —
The hand on his shoulder fell away. Someone said, That's it, Paula! The Ancient Tongue!
And a girl's voice, doubtful, a little disgusted.
You're sure? But how in the System did this—this—
Bum. Tramp, Garth muttered, peering blearily at the pale ovals of unfocused faces above him. Don't mind me, sister. Beachcomber is the word—drunk, right now. So please get the hell out and let me finish my bottle.
More water was sluiced on Garth. He shook his head, groaning, and saw Tolomo, the Ganymedean trader, scowling down at him. The native's three-pupiled eyes were angry.
English hissed, oddly accented, on his tongue.
You wake up, Garth! Hear me? This is a job for you. You owe me too much already. These people come looking for you, say they want a guide. Now you do what they want, and pay me for all that liquor you buy on credit.
Sure, Garth said wearily. Tomorrow. Not now.
Tolomo snorted. I get you native guides, Captain Brown. They know way to Chahnn.