Gene did not voice his fears, but he was afraid the rally had come too late. The attacking force had gained too far up the side of the valley, and with their greatly superior numbers they could soon squelch the opposition in a man-to-man fight. It was uncanny, the way the eyeless beings moved over and around the obstructions in their path, as if they knew the location of each from memory. Even so, they were about the clumsiest things he knew of.
The valley was brighter now, and looking up he could see a dim glow filtering through the heavy clouds. It had been a short night, and that was well for the tribe; for heretofore they had been forced to direct their weapons to the target by the light of torches dropped by fallen half-men.
But even though the advantage of daylight was now with them, they were forced to give back before the doggedly advancing enemy. Soon they would be forced to seek refuge in the caves. And as the foul creatures came on there rose up an endless, terrifying scream of hate. The fall of the cave city was near at hand.
Gene had been thinking about the things he had witnessed in the Cave of Talkers, and now he turned excitedly to the man beside him, a desperate plan taking shape in his mind.
"Listen, Kac! Go now—and may your feet sprout wings—to the Cave of Talkers and bring from there the sack of liquid used in your ritual. We may yet save the city, my friend."
Fear was in Kac's eyes, but only a moment. Surely the gods would give up their sustenance to save their devout people. He hurried off, bending low and weaving.
While he waited, Gene poured a steady fire at the abhorrent foe. Still, not a gap showed in that long, undulating line. The moment one creature fell, another rushed in to take his place.
Kac returned shortly, carrying the big skin sack of oil.
"This is all we have," he apologized. "The plants that produce this are scarce, and so we never have a very large supply."
"We can only hope it will be enough," Gene said grimly, taking the sack. "Here, give me your spear."