There was no jollity at meals, except where Flane ate. Morosely, the men stared at one another, and bent to their plates. A pall hung over the ship, bathing those who rode it. Flane was different. He still laughed and jested, and spent the moonlit nights walking the deck with Aevlyn. "What use to brood?" he asked her. "Our fate is written somewhere, perhaps in that great cave where dwells the All-High that the Princess Gleya told me of. He sits there and watches all our deeds enacted before him." "I would like to go and peer over His shoulder to see our immediate future," the girl sighed, clinging to Flane. "Seeing it would not change it," said Flane. "Not knowing, but doing and fighting every inch of the pathway through life--that's what counts!" He looked at the blade with the seven stars in it, holding it up so that moonlight made it glimmer. "This is what counts--holding a sword in your hand and using it to fight for what is right and just. It's like a key to your own future. When you hold it, you can't fail!" Aevlyn pressed against him, whispering, "I wish I were of your race, Flane. You never admit defeat, even if you have already failed!" Flane grunted, "Failed? Just because we didn't have time to raise that army at Moornal? We take a different path, that's all. It may lead to the same goal. Who knows?" * * * * * On the morning of the sixth day, a lookout yelped. Flane leaped to the rail, clung to it with strong, supple hands. His eyes glinted with excitement. The host of the Darksiders lay like a swollen shadow along the ground. It seethed and moved in restless waves, flowing forward. Big vans and wagons were piled high with spears and arrows, pulled by draft-_megathons_ whose manes flowed in the wind. On war-_megathons_ and on foot the Darksiders surged like an irresistible wave across the plains. On high waved their _kaatra_-tail banners. Here and there a pennon whipped like a striking lash in the breeze. And their engines of war, their catapults and mangonels, trundled along at the same swift pace. "They will overflow the Klarnvan cities," whispered Flane to himself. "There is nothing on all Klarn that can stop that horde--except my violet-gun. And even that--" he shook his head dubiously, staring at the vast throng below. On board the magniship there was great activity. Men ran back and forth, reaching for weapons, shouting hoarsely. Now the horde had seen them. A roar went up from the assembled throats, the howl of a wolf on sighting its prey. Lifted lances shook, sunlight glistening from their sanded tips. Here and there a bow was raised, and an arrow fitted to its string. The tailed banners danced in the hands of the standard-bearers. "Let me speak to them," Flane said to Harth who nervously fingered a dagger in his belt. "I may dissuade them from their venture. If only I had the key to the Machine! Then, indeed, would I have a weapon to bargain with!"