The older man chuckled softly, "It is good for Klarn that there is one
man who can stop to kiss a wench when men are dying all around him. It
bodes high hope for the future, Flane."
But the dark-haired youth would not be soothed. He said things about
himself until Vawdar writhed suddenly on the ground, back arched.
"I haven't--much time," the man on the sand whispered.
Flane bent, ear to his mouth.
"The key of the Machine, it--it isn't what--we think. It--"
Flane held his breath, staring at the closed eyes. The thought came
to him that this man lying so still and silent on the desert at his
knees was the last hope of the Klarnva. If he dies without speaking,
the Machine will never work. And if the Machine does not work, then the
Darksiders will overrun the city-states of the Klarn. The _mekniks_
may call them in to fight the _dulars_, and that will hasten their
coming; but come they will, some day. For the Klarnva were sliding back
to their level, swiftly, without the Machine. There would be no rays
to wipe out hordes at one swipe. Instead, there must be arrow to meet
arrow, and sword for sword; and there were few of the Klarnva who could
match the Darksiders with these weapons!
He moved Vawdar with an arm under his shoulder, staring at the pallid
face. "Vawdar! Speak to me!"
The man moved his head from side to side. His eyes opened, staring.
They focused, after a moment. "The prophecy, Flane. The prophecy--"