He rested on his blade, watching the big blonde Darksider who led most
of the attacks with a gnarled club in his hand, walk toward them. Two
_mekniks_ paced at his side.
"Surrender, Flane of Klarn," the blonde said. "We offer safe conduct to
you all."
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.