The older man said eagerly, “But you wear Green, so evidently you have chosen to raid for the Greens.”

Ulan Dhor shrugged, sensing the block across a mental channel. “If you wish … What others are there?”

“None, no other,” replied the older man. “We are the Greens of Ampridatvir.”

“Then — whom does a Raider raid?”

The younger man moved uneasily and pulled in his line. “He raids a ruined temple to the demon Cazdal, for the lost tablet of Rogol Domedonfors.”

“In that case,” said Ulan Dhor, “I might become a Raider.”

“For the Greens,” said the old man, peering at him sidewise.

“Enough, enough,” said the other. “The sun is past the zenith. We had best be homeward.”

“Aye, aye,” said the older man, with sudden energy. “The sun drops.”

The younger man looked at Ulan Dhor. “If you propose to raid, you had best come with us.”

Ulan Dhor passed a line to the barge, adding his fabric sail to the plaited reeds, and they turned their bows toward shore.

It was very beautiful, crossing the sunny afternoon swells toward the forested island, and as they rounded the eastern cape, Ampridatvir came into view.

A line of low buildings faced the harbor, and beyond rose such towers as Ulan Dhor had never imagined to exist — metal spires soaring past the central height of the island to glisten in the light of the setting sun. Such cities were legends of the past, dreams of the time when the Earth was young.

Ulan Dhor stared speculatively at the barge, at the coarse green cloaks of the fishermen. Were they peasants? Would he become a butt for ridicule, thus arriving at the glistening city? He turned uncomfortably back to the island, chewing his lips. According to Kandive, Ampridatvir would be toppled columns and rubble, like the Old Town above Kaiin …

The sun dropped against the water, and now Ulan Dhor, with a sudden shock, noticed the crumble at the base of the towers; here was his expectation, as much desolation as Kandive had predicted. Strangely the fact gave Ampridatvir an added majesty, the dignity of a lost monument.

The wind had slackened, the progress of boat and barge was slow indeed. The fishermen betrayed anxiety, muttering to each other, adjusting their sail to draw its best, tightening their stays. But before they drifted inside the breakwater, purple twilight had dropped across the city, and the towers became tremendous black monoliths. In near-darkness they tied to a landing of logs, among other barges, some painted green, others gray.

Ulan Dhor jumped up to the dock. “A moment,” said the younger fisherman, eyeing Ulan Dhor’s red coat. “It would be unwise to dress thus, even at night.” He rummaged through a box and brought forth a green cape, ragged and smelling of fish. “Wear this, and hold the hood over your black hair …”

Ulan Dhor obeyed with a private grimace of distaste. He asked, “Where may I sup and bed tonight? Are there inns or hostels in Ampridatvir?”

The younger man said without enthusiasm, “You may pass the night at my hall.”

The fishermen slung the day’s catch over their shoulders, climbed to the dock, and peered anxiously through the rubble.

“You are ill at ease,” observed Ulan Dhor.

“Aye,” said the younger man. “At night the Gauns roam the streets.”

“What are the Gauns?”

“Demons.”

“There are many varieties of demons,” Ulan Dhor said lightly. “What be these?”

“They are like horrible men. They have great long arms that clutch and rend …”

“Ho!” muttered Ulan Dhor, feeling for his sword hilt. “Why do you permit them abroad?”

“We cannot harm them. They are fierce and strong — but fortunately not too agile. With luck and watchfulness …”

Ulan Dhor now searched the rubble with an expression as careful as the fishermen’s. These people were familiar with the dangers of the place; he would obey their counsel until he knew better.

They threaded the first tumble of ruins, entered a canyon shadowed from the afterglow by the pinnacles to either side, brimming with gloom.

Deadness! thought Ulan Dhor. The place was under the pall of dusty death. Where were the active millions of long ago Ampridatvir? Dead dust, their moisture mingled in the ocean, beside that of every other man and woman who had lived on Earth.

Ulan Dhor and the two fishermen moved down the avenue, pygmy figures wandering a dream-city, and Ulan Dhor looked coldly from side to side … Prince Kandive had spoken the truth. Ampridatvir was the very definition of antiquity. The windows gaped black, concrete had cracked, balconies hung crazily, terraces were mounded with dust, debris filled the street — blocks of stone from fallen columns, crushed and battered metal.

But Ampridatvir still moved with a weird unending life where the builders had used ageless substance, eternal energies. Strips of a dark glistening material flowed like water at each side of the street — slowly at the edges, rapidly at the center.

The fishermen matter-of-factly stepped on this strip, and Ulan Dhor gingerly followed them to the swift center. “I see roads flowing like rivers in Ampridatvir,” he said. “You call me demon; truly I think the glove is on the other hand.”

“It is no magic,” said the younger man shortly. “It is the way of Ampridatvir.”

At regular intervals along the street stood stone vestibules about ten feet high that had the appearance of sheltering ramps leading below the street.

“What lies below?” inquired Ulan Dhor.

The fishermen shrugged. “The doors are tight. No man has ever gone through. Legend says it was the last work of Rogol Domedonfors.”

Ulan Dhor withheld further questions, observing a growing nervousness in the fishermen. Infected by their apprehension he kept his hand at his sword.

“None live in this part of Ampridatvir,” said the old fisherman in a hoarse whisper. “It is ancient beyond imagining, ridden with ghosts.”

The streets broke into a central square, the towers fell away before them. The sliding strip coasted to a stop, like water flowing into a pool. Here glowed the first artificial light Ulan Dhor had seen — a bright globe hung on a looping metal stanchion.

In this light Ulan Dhor saw a youth in a gray cloak hurrying across the square … A movement among the ruins; the fishermen gasped, crouched. A corpse-pale creature sprang out into the light. Its arms hung knotted and long; dirty fur covered its legs. Great eyes glared from a peaked, fungus-white skull; two fangs hung over the undershot mouth. It leapt upon the wretch in the gray robe and tucked him under his arm; then, turning, gave Ulan Dhor and the fishermen a look of baleful triumph. And now they saw that the victim was a woman …

Ulan Dhor drew his sword. “No, no!” whispered the older man. “The Gaun will go its way!”

“But the woman it has taken! We can save her!”

“The Gaun has seized no one.” The old man clutched at his shoulder.

“Are you blind, man?” cried Ulan Dhor.

“There are none in Ampridatvir but the Greens,” said the younger man. “Stay by us.”

Ulan Dhor hesitated. Was the woman in gray, then, a ghost? If so, why did not the fishermen say as much? … The Gaun, with insolent leisure, stalked toward a long edifice of dark tumbled arches.

Ulan Dhor ran across the white square of ancient Ampridatvir.

The monster twisted to face him and flung out a great knotted arm, as long as a man was tall, ending in a white-furred clump of fingers. Ulan Dhor hewed a tremendous blow with his sword; the Gaun’s forearm dangled by a shred of flesh and bone-splinter.