"Can't we reach that gate with the dragons?" said the girl. "We have _megathon_ stallions waiting there. We could go across the desert together, all of us--" Flane disengaged his blade from the sword of the first _meknik_, and lunged beneath his guard. As the man fell, Flane shoved him back into the others, working his blade, butchering calmly. In the closeness of the mob who rushed him, there was no room for finesse. He shortened his blade, and stabbed. "_Megathons_," Flane whispered to the night. "They are native to the southern regions. One-horned horses." There was only one city-state of the Klarnva in the south: Moornal. Yet Moornal was remote from Klarn; so remote that, since the Machine went dead, it was looked upon almost as a myth. "Yes," said the girl in answer to Flane's quick questions. "From Moornal. We, too, have felt the bite of want without the Machine to feed us. We are desperate." The last man fell in front of Flane. He whirled and raced toward the blue-coated men who were fighting at the alley's entrance. "To the gate!" he shouted, and broke the ring of _mekniks_ and was in the clear, his redly-dripping blade like the darting tongue of a swamp-snake. Flane fought like a man gone mad. His feet danced the _incartata_, even as his bare left hand swept aside point and blade; with lunge and _caricado_ he played his blade in the torchlight, engaging the _mekniks_. They cursed, but in their breath was the fright of grim death. These men had seen Flane fight before; they knew his reputation, and the magnificent steel of his sword. They broke slowly, but when they finally did, they ran. The girl was staring at Flane with dark moons for eyes, standing solitary under the stone lintel of the gate. He shot toward her, put out an arm and swept her up against him, racing beyond the gate. The hooves of the _megathons_ were stamping on the stone causeway as they came into the open. Flane saw Vawdar already high in an ornate saddle, gesturing. A horse reared against a moon, fore-hooves pawing wildly. A Moornalian shouted something, swinging his mount's head toward the gate. But Flane only saw and heard these things dimly. For the girl that was in the crook of his arm, pressed soft against him, was working a strange magic on him. He saw her face framed by the wild red hair, and the dark, mysterious eyes, and the generous mouth. Under moonlight she was enchantment come to life. He bent and kissed her. Dimly, he realized that he was mad to stand kissing this girl while men shouted and horses whinnied, but he put the thought from him. The storm broke, then. There were men with swords all around them, shouting triumph. Shoulders bumped them, drove them against a horse. Flane heard Vawdar yell, saw him bend from the saddle and stretch an arm toward them. "I tried to warn you. The _mekniks_ have come in force. Man, move yourself!"