"The Mists draw close; we must hurry," panted Dandtan.
They traversed the tongue of forest which bordered the meadow and came to the central plain of Tav. There was a brooding stillness there. The Ana, perched on Garin's shoulder, shivered.
Their walk became a trot; the Gibi bunched together. Once Thrala caught her breath in a half sob.
"They are flying slowly because of us. And it's so far—"
"Look!" Dandtan pointed at the plain. "The morgels!"
The morgel pack, driven by fear, ran in leaping bounds. They passed within a hundred yards of the three, yet did not turn from their course, though several snarled at them.
"They are already dead," observed Dandtan. "There is no time for them to reach the shelter of the Caves."
Splashing through a shallow brook, the three began to run. For the first time Thrala faltered and broke pace. Garin thrust the Ana into Dandtan's arms and, before she could protest, swept the girl into his arms.
The haze was denser now, settling upon them as a curtain. Black hair, finer than silk, whipped across Garin's throat. Thrala's head was on his shoulder, her heaving breasts arched as she gasped the sultry air.
"They—keep—watch...!" shouted Dandtan.