Flane laughed in his face. "The _mekniks_ would never let me live, Darksider," he replied. "Better a death in the open air than a dagger under the ribs on a dark night while I sleep." He saw the _mekniks_ scowl at him. The Darksider said, "We will come and take you!" "Then come, club-swinger! My sword whispers to me that it wants to look beneath your skin." The club-bearer waved an arm, and archers trotted forward, to form a circle around him. The Darksider waved at the mesa, crying, "Sweep that spot for me. The time for play has ended!" * * * * * Flane went white. This was what he dreaded--a flight of war-arrows to keep the passage clear while the Darksiders attacked. In the press of battle the archers could not fire, for their arrows would fell their own men as well as defenders. But with an arrow storm to clear the way, and then an attack in force-- "Fall back!" he shouted. The arrows whistled, coming at them. Some broke against rock uprights, some dropped and skidded along the mesa floor. One or two found flesh and dead men fell, to fight no more. Flane whispered, "Four left. Four and Aevlyn." With his red left arm, he shoved her behind him, blue-hilted sword deflecting an arrow. Slowly he backed against the sheer gorge. A man dropped at his feet, the arrow still humming in his back. Another man, caught by a thrown spear, slipped over the edge of the gorge, and plunged downward, screaming. Flane and the man standing beside him looked at each other and chuckled grimly. "It was a good fight, Flane." "We stood them off two days and a night," agreed Flane. "They'll put us in their legends, the Darksiders will. They like brave men." The man laughed, "As a ghost I'll come to their winter campfires and listen to their bards extolling us. It will be a reward, in a way." Club in hand, the blonde Darksider was leaping toward them, a line of axemen and archers at his back. Before them the Darksiders saw two men, and a girl with hair the color of a sunset. In her white hands she held the violet-gun. The two men were bloody and fierce, unshaven, in rags. Swords glimmered in their hands as they stood waiting. They had fought well, but the time for play was over. "Take them," cried the club-bearer. But Flane astounded them by coming in himself, bent low, right arm up and swinging. His blade came and went, and where it had been, the knees of a dying man buckled. Uniform in tatters, brown skin dyed red, he was a miracle of speed and sureness--and slaughter. Behind him Aevlyn watched, dangerous as a tigress whose kittens are threatened. The violet-gun came up, covering Flane's back. Men drove in for that unprotected back, daggers lifted. The violet-gun belched once, and then it died. But that once was enough. The lavender fire sizzled and flared, and it ate up the men and their weapons. But Flane had already whirled, and his sword stabbed out, toward the purple flame.