* * * * * The Pits of Ygoth, far beneath the turrets and spires of the fair city above, reeked of the staleness and corruption of centuries. Age-old dampness permeated the foul atmosphere; small creatures of this dank underworld scampered and scurried just beyond the torchlights of the guards. The clanking of Duar's chains, now multiplied until even his mighty frame staggered beneath their weight, awoke echoes now near, now far, until it seemed to the small body of men that they were intruding into the haunts of all the long-dead kings and warriors of ancient Krall and their lost souls were girding up rusty mail for ghostly conflict. "This one will do." The captain's voice was harsh. Duar was pushed through a rusty barred door and flung into a corner, the crash of his irons shattering the stillness of the Pits for a mile or more throughout their silent depths. His chains attached to corroded iron rungs on the wall, he lay watching the last glimmer of torchlight fade from the damp stones as the muffled footsteps of the guards died away down the passage. Darkness rushed in triumphant, clashing against his eyeballs with almost physical impact. The man who had been a king smiled into the black inferno. A memory of the alabaster features of Nione rose before him and the smile became a grin. He moved into a slightly dryer corner of the cell and stretched out his legs as comfortably as possible, removing some object that felt like a dried shinbone from beneath his spine. His chains grew quiet again. Something scuttled past the doorway and he had an impression of tiny, gleaming red eyes. Duar slept. * * * * * He awoke with a sense of uneasiness, akin to the disturbed nerves of a jungle animal before approaching peril; not as a civilized man, drowsy from deep slumber, but instantly, fully cognizant of his surroundings and predicament. Only a slight twitching of his sword-arm answered his first nervous impulse to reach for the weapon that was not there. Silence and everlasting night reigned where the cleanliness of the sun had never shone. Duar's straining eyes met only blankness and told his tense figure nothing, but his ears gave proof that even the scamperings and rustlings had stilled, and sub-consciously he knew some alien presence had frightened them away--a presence without sound, but his heart and brain and whatever intangible part of him men called the soul were clamoring a nerve-shattering alarm. Suddenly tiny molecules of light flickered in the black chaos before him, twisting and tumbling in a circular area like separate parts, as if each held a tiny life of its own. They spread no beams to reveal the rude chamber; outside of their small circumference the dungeon remained as dark as ever, but within the whirling area of infinitesimal sparks an unearthly glow became brighter and brighter.