He wound his legs in a plaited rope and was dangled over the side, below the flat keel of the ship. He swayed in the wind, the violet-gun at ease in his hands. A Darksider with a wolfskin wrapped around him bellowed upwards, racing underneath him, trying to stab him with his spear. Flane grinned and shouted, "Peace, Darksider. I come to offer terms." A group of mounted outlanders rode toward him. They sat their saddles easily, bending as their steeds curvetted. "The people of Moornal desire to dwell in peace with the Darksiders," shouted Flane. "We look for the key to the Machine. If we find it, the Machine's power will be given to all." A Darksider roared laughter, turning to his companions, gesturing a hairy arm at Flane. "The hanging one offers peace. We will make peace, after we have wetted our blades in his flesh, and the flesh of all his kind!" They laughed hoarsely and took turns heaving war-lances at Flane where he hung in the ropes. One of the spears came so close to him he could have reached out and caught it. Flane sighed and lifted the violet-gun. He did not want to slay these men. But he had to. They needed a lesson. He sighted along the barrel and pressed the button. From the mouth of the gun the lavender flame came with a swoosh and dropped around the outlanders. It lay among them like the overflow of a rainbow, scintillating and glowing. Then it dissipated. Where the mounted Darksiders had stood and hurled their spears there was only a blotch of darkened ground. Even the long grasses were gone. "Oww!" howled the thousands who watched with fear stamped upon their faces. "Oww! Here is the magic of the Klarnva come to eat us up!" Some of them wheeled their mounts to run, but a great fellow whose fair blonde hair spilled to his shoulders, lifted a gnarled club in his hand and rallied them. "What?" he roared. "Do we flee before one man? Feather me an arrow in his hide so that he will drop that flaming thing he holds. Then _we_ may use it." Arrows carried farther than did spears. Flane scampered back up the ropes as shafts started to slither in among the cordage. He put a hand on the rail and swung over. Panting, he stood and stared at the horde that raced for them. "Arrows and spears will never take the ship," he said, "but those war-engines might." He called to Harth, "Pass the ship over their machines. I must destroy them." Flane went to the rail and leaned on it, watching the ground slide under him. Now they were over the assembled tribes, skimming low. The war-engines were just beyond them. Flane lifted his gun, held it in readiness. He fired once. A massive catapult went violet, and disappeared. He fired again, and again. Mangonels flared, fading. * * * * *