IV

The sun lay like a crimson ball on the horizon. Flooded with its red

rays were the waving grass fields, and the riders of the _megathons_

that sped across them. Hooves rose and fell, as the stallions' heads

stretched forward, eager for the run.

Flane and Aevlyn rode side by side. There were bandages still on their

arms, on Flane's chest and thigh. Behind them thundered Besl, the

blonde Darksider, and a _dular_ from Moornal.

The cool wind in his face made Flane grin; made him stare, in sheer

gladness at being alive, at the grassy plain, the swollen, crimson sun,

the distant blue mountains.

He had not thought to be alive today.

There had been confusion on the mesa after he had laughed. The

_mekniks_ were all for throwing him into the gorge, but the Darksiders

saw in him the savior of their prophecy, and would not have him touched.

"This is the key to the Machine," Flane informed them, showing them the

ruined blade. "The blade is the key."

"The blade is gone," growled a sullen _meknik_.

"Not all of it. Only the foible of the blade. The forte remains. It may

be sufficient to turn the lock. It is worth a try. Speak out--do I go

to Klarn with a safe conduct, or do you try throwing me in the gorge?"

The giant blonde came to Flane's side and lifted his club.

"I, Besl, promise safe conduct for the Keeper," he roared, looking at

the _mekniks_ with sullen eye, "and any who interferes shall be treated

as enemies."

As sullenly, the _mekniks_ agreed. They could not do otherwise, for

without the Darksiders, they were no match for the _dulars_ of Klarn.

One of them said, "But we cannot vouchsafe a passage through the city

itself. Other _mekniks_ might not agree with us."

"I'll risk that," snapped Flane. "I have gone through them once. I can

do it again."

Later, when they were alone, Flane said to Aevlyn, "It is but a forlorn

hope. When the stem of a key is gone, the lock will not open. And the

foible of this blade is part of the key, too. And it is powder on the

rocks."

"Then why go to Klarn at all?" sighed Aevlyn, out of the weariness of

her spirit, tired of seeing men die and blood run red.

"Because there is still a chance. A slim one, true. But--a chance!"

Her eyes were dark and worshipping, staring up at his grim face. She

whispered, "Brood of the space-wanderers! You never quit, do you,

Flane? You always keep on, even after you've failed!"

"My stubbornness hasn't hurt us yet. I wouldn't give up on the desert,

and thus I won the sword, and you. I kept Harth fighting, and we've

discovered that the sword is a key to the Machine! Now--well, what the

All-High can see in His cave, He shall see!"

The Darksiders provided them with swift, tireless _megathons_. Flane

missed Saarl, but Saarl was in Moornal now, if the magniship got back.

The dun mount he straddled was a good beast. When they were in the

saddle, Besl swung onto a black stallion beside them.

"I go as a watchdog, Flane of Klarn. If you fail, I carry word to the

Darksiders, to bring fire and steel through the cities of the Klarnva."

"Good enough," Flane grunted, but Aevlyn pressed his hand with hers,

bowing her head, biting her lips until a drop of blood welled.

They crossed the mountain trails, and headed out over the plains. The

great sand-stretches were dotted by eremophytic plants that lifted

thorny branches toward a clear sky. It was a land of peace, where

cactus dwelt with mesquite, and the riotous reds and yellows of the

wildflowers splashed the desert with colour. Flane wondered whether

this peace would soon be shattered by the flaming red clamour of war.

His thought almost came to reality on the third day. At noon the riders

sighted a vast host moving toward them from the west. Flane stood

in his stirrups, staring beneath a palm. Then Aevlyn saw the maroon

pennons fluttering from glittering lancetops and cried, "They come from

Moornal!"

There were golden swans among the maroon banners. She said again, "The

men of Yeelya. Truly, the Klarnva are gathered to fight it out with the

Darksiders."

A cluster of horsemen broke from the array and galloped toward them.

Flane and Aevlyn and Besl met them with palms extended, although the

warriors had long since recognized the fiery red hair of the girl. At

Besl they shot dark glances, and some of them fingered the hafts of

their swords.

Flane told his story, swiftly. The deputation from Moornal and Yeelya

drew away; whispered among themselves with many gestures, once in a

while glancing toward Flane and the half-sword that hung at his side.

An old man with hair the color of mountain snow broke from their group

and came to Flane.

"We will abide by the trial of the sword," he said simply. "If the

Machine works, then we will gladly live in peace with the Darksiders

and the _mekniks_ of Klarn. Aye, we will help establish you as Keeper

of the Machine, Flane of Klarn, that all may share its benefits."

Besl grunted his surprise, "I never thought to hear a man of Moornal

speak words like that."

The warrior smiled grimly, "I am an old man. When I remember how life

was in my youth," he sighed, "I would be friend of any who helped to

bring it back."

The old man flung up an arm to his retainer and wheeled his horse

beside Flane's stallion. He explained, "I go as Besl does. To bring my

people the word. _War--or peace._"

* * * * *

They rode for many days, across the grasslands and into the desert,

skirting that until they came to an ancient rock road.

And how they galloped into a red sunset, knowing that before the three

moons rose, they would see the spires of Klarn in the distance. Within

an hour they drew rein; clustered together, silent.

Sitting on their saddles on a hill, they all looked at the black towers

of Klarn crouching below them, at the domed temple, the flat-roofed

houses. The red Dragon Gate seemed covered with blood in the last rays

of the sun.

"We must go unseen into that city," Flane said. "And, as unseen, find

the temple of the Machine. There will be guards at the Dragon Gate.

Leave them to me."

The beacon lights in the dragons' mouths roared gustily, glared scarlet

in the blue darkness where Flane came out of it with a naked dagger in

his hand. His rush toppled both guards. Before their writhing mouths

could make a sound, his right arm lifted, drove downward twice with

slim steel blade.

He straddled the still forms, curving an arm at the others who slipped

from saddle to earth and came toward him.

"We must be swift," Flane said. "The _mekniks_ don't know of the truce

their kind have made. Do not be seen or we'll never reach the temple."

Through side streets and alleyways Flane led them. Where shadows

bulked black and grim, their running forms made odd silhouettes.

Between two columns, they paused to stare at the Temple. It loomed

gigantic in the blackness. Besl grunted softly, "I've never seen

anything like it!" Then they were going across the quadrangle, stooping

low, eyes peering left and right.

The sentry whirled as Flane came for him, but he whirled too slow. A

brawny forearm locked about his throat, and he died with steel in his

chest.

Flane drove into the temple, across its tiled floor.

He came to a stop before the Machine.

The others came softly forward. They stood a little behind him, staring

up at the metal bulk, whose levers and dials shone with reflected light

from the three moons swirling across the skies.

Aevlyn sobbed wearily. Besl whispered prayers to his Darkside gods. The

old warrior whispered, "I have not looked on the glory of Klarn for

many years, but it seems only as yesterday that I saw and heard the

Keeper explaining its function. It works by radiation, you know. The

globes filled with whitish powder store up sun energy, via the yellow

prism in the desert. Solar energy, he called it. The Machine, when it

works, picks up that energy and sends it all over Klarn in bands of

power that drives all engines.

"It heats our cities. It lights our lights. It fires our guns. It even

feeds us by helping to raise food. At least--it used to."

Flane tried not to think of the utter weariness in the old man's voice

as he stepped forward. With his right hand he drew out the ruined

sword, stared down at it; ran a fingertip along the shattered blade.

The old man voiced the weariness of all the Klarn.