It was the opening Hardan needed. Gritting his teeth against the pain and numbness of his bruised shoulder he lunged upward with his left sword and his other blade darted in lightning strokes at the sarif's middle. His left hand jarred limply from the sword grip, but Nitka Porn staggered backward dying, the sword piercing deep into his eye-socket. "Well done!" a hearty voice cried, and he turned to face a leather-husked captain of the Tarnish Guard with his remaining five men. Ylda gave a little cry and in a moment was in the soldier's arms. A hot wave of jealousy burned within Hardan and then was gone. "It is my father!" she cried gladly.... * * * * * The sun was high overhead when they rode toward the crater valley of the Aarthmen where they were to spend another hand of days before guiding the wagon train on its way to the Bitter Sea. And now their purpose was to establish a treaty between Aarthmen and Wetlanders. Nor did Hardan fear that his small friends would receive any but fair treatment--their ability to read minds guarded them against that common failing of expanding races, to take what they wanted by treachery. "We will guide the train to the Bitter Sea," he told Ylda as he loosed her from her bonds. "Some day all the Wetlands will be ours, and the men of Aarth will rule the Drylands, and ships-that-fly will link us together. "But until then the trek must go on. Along this trail we are marking out other wagons will follow until a great road stretches here. There will be lakes and underground hostels along the way, and our children will travel in vurth-insulated wagons without maars, wagons faster than the wind. "It was so on Aarth, their legends declare, and so it will be with us." Ylda pouted. "What do we care about Aarth and treks?" she demanded. She nestled closer and her eyes closed contentedly.