Smith looked at him, startled. But he never had time to ask what the
matter was. The lookout yelled. Wings rushed overhead. Guns chattered
from the parapet. The attack was on.
Tex ran automatically for the catwalk. Passing Kuna's crumpled body, he
realized something he should have seen at first.
"Kuna's body was dry when he came into the fort. All dry, even his
clothes." And then, "Why did the swamp-men wait until he was safely
inside and the door closed to attack?"
With a quarter of their guns disabled and two-thirds of their garrison
gone, they still held superiority due to their position and powerful
weapons.
There was no concerted attempt to force the walls. Groups of
white-haired warriors made sallies, hurled beetle-bombs and weighed
bags of green snakes, and retired into the mist. They lost men, but not
many.
In the air, it was different. The weird, half-feathered mounts wheeled
and swooped, literally diving into the gunbursts, the riders hurling
missiles with deadly accuracy. And they were dying, men and lizards, by
the dozen.
Tex, feeling curiously dazed, fired automatically. Bodies thrashed into
the net. Rust flakes showered like rain. Looking at the thin strands,
Tex wondered how long it would hold.
Abruptly he caught sight of what, subconsciously, he'd been looking
for. She was there, darting high over the melee, her silver hair
flying, her body an iridescent pearl in the mist.
Captain Smith spoke softly.
"You see what she's up to, Tex? Those flyers are volunteers. Their
orders are to kill as many of our men as possible before they die
themselves, but they must fall inside the walls! On the net, Tex. To
weaken, break it, if possible."