The surge of sound from levels underneath told of a far bigger melee down there, spreading through the Citadel. And then that sound, and the small, personal noises of their own staggering fight, were cut across by a brutal authoritative new sound.
A hooting, loud and commanding, getting louder by the second, braying like the voice of doom through the vast iron pile.
The two Vurna still left on their feet tried to turn and run down the corridor. The hunter's bolos brought them down quickly.
Sweetbriar's leathery old face was wild and startled as he got to his feet. "What the hell—"
"That's the Vurna's big battle-stations siren!" Price said. "They're a bit late with it. Come on!"
He and the hunters began to look for stairs, racing swiftly along the deserted corridors. They found some at last, and sped downward, level after level.
Bellowing, deafening in volume now, the siren kept hooting.
It could not drown out the tumultuous uproar that filled the lower levels. Price and the hunters were met suddenly by a mass of tribesmen boiling up from the ground level. They were screaming, laughing, capering in the halls, dragging with them one or two captured Vurna—triumphant victors, dancing down a hated power under their moccasined feet. Their hair and beards and their clothing were still dripping wet with rain.
They swept up Price and Sweetbriar and the six others in their advancing front, pounding their shoulders, hugging them.
"We did it! We got 'em!" they cried. "We took the Citadel!"