Flane leaped from the cabin, sped along the tilting deck on the starboard side, half-running on the wall of the cabin. He shouted the men out of their battle stations, swept them up in the whirl of his own enthusiasm.
"Overboard with everything movable! Heave it over. Retain only food and weapons. Everything else goes. We've got to get the ship up that mountain!"
Aevlyn ran to him, to be near him, and to spur on the men with her presence. She put soft white hands to lamps and cushions, carrying them to the rail and casting them. Chairs and tables were borne by the men who formed quick-moving lines at Flane's directions. Soon the cabins lay stripped and bare, except for the men who clustered in them, polishing and sharpening swords and lances.
Flane went with Aevlyn to the prow of the magniship, hearing Harth bellow orders to the helmsman.
Inch by inch the crippled vessel went up. Scraping past the tops of trees, grating its keel on a jagged lip of rock, it mounted steadily. The trees fell away below, yielding place to massive rocks that lay piled and scattered on one another like sleeping kittens. Like giants slain and scattered in battle lay the boulders.
"There!" shouted Flane, pointing.
A bare space towered above the tossed rocks, flat on top and jagged at the sides. A steep path rose sharply to the level of the empty mesa, up which three men could walk abreast. It was the only means of entrance to the fortress of stone, for behind it, as though sheared by a gigantic sword, the cliff was cut away. Behind the mesa dropping thousands of feet straight down, a gorge was sliced into the mountain.
"We could hold that mesa forever," Flane grinned, "given enough food and water. Only three men can come at us at once. There is no way of retreat, except by falling to our deaths in the gorge."
Even Harth grunted, "It isn't so bad. A man could die a good death there, with his weapons red with his enemy's blood. As we all probably will."
Flane sighed, "If only we could get word to the Klarnva in Moornal and Yeelya! Then our stand here would be worth while. It would give the cities time to unite, to put an army in the field."
Aevlyn was buckling on a cape fitted with cabin-mail at breast and shoulder. She said suddenly, "One man might make Moornal in the magniship. He could spread word."
"You!" said Flane and Harth in one breath, but Aevlyn came close to Flane and shook her red mop of hair.
"No. I stay with Flane. I will never be separated from him again. Send another. I will not go."
Flane cajoled and begged and finally commanded, but Aevlyn bubbled laughter between her full red lips, and patted his hands. Her fiery hair swirled as she shook her head, brown eyes a-dance.
"I stay with you, Flane, come death or life! Now stop, for time grows short. Pick another who knows the ship and let him go."
Harth and Flane shrugged at each other and selected a man whose arm had been broken by a catapult stone. They gave him food and drink, and fastened him to the helm of the ship, but his weapons they took from him. He could not use them, and there were men who would be desperately in need of extra weapons soon.
"All Klarn rides your ship," Flane told him. "Summon the men of Yeelya, too. You will not be in time to rescue us, but you may bring the threat of the Darksiders to a sorry finish."
One after the other they dropped from the ship as it skimmed the mesa. Swords in one hand and violet-gun in the other, Flane landed cat-like and was up, racing toward the sloping adit to the level rock. A few of the Darksiders could be seen in the distance, coming up over a ridge, pointing lances toward them, shouting.
Aevlyn stood with hands clasped to her breasts, staring after the drifting ship as it dipped into the gorge. It bounced a little as an air current caught at it, then slipped along the channel between the cliffs that an ancient river had eaten away in the solid rock.
"May the All-High have him ever in His sight," she whispered.
An arrow whined past her. She turned, seeing Flane at the approach to the mesa, deflecting them, one after another, with the glittering sword in his hand. Now the Darksiders were howling up the slope, racing on foot, leaping frommegathonto stone, waving swords and axes.
Flane met them, grinning. His steel slipped and slithered past their guards, drinking deep in chests and thighs.
The leading Darksiders would have fallen back, but now the horde was on them, and a swirling maelstrom of battle-maddened men drove in low for the kill. Only three of them could come at once up that slope, but they came on in a steady wave that climbed over the bodies of the fallen, throwing spears, slashing down and upwards with sword and battle-axe.
Flane fought until the breath whistled in his throat, until his arms were scarred with wounds, and ran red blood. Someone yanked on him, pulled him from the press, and he stood sobbing for air as Aevlyn dabbed a dry cloth at his cuts. When she offered him white wine in a copper flagon, he drank deep; with the back of his hand he dried his mouth and grinned at her.
"It will be night presently," she whispered. "Then the men will have a rest."
"So soon?" questioned Flane blankly, looking at the sun.
"You fought for hours there," Aevlyn smiled, kneeling to ease a dying man's pains. "Some grumbled that you sought all the glory for yourself."
Flane chuckled, looking out at the tribes that hemmed them in, building camps and fires, and erectingkaatra-hide tents. He whispered savagely, "Glory enough for all at this fight." He shook his head, and his green eyes narrowed. "There are many of them," he said slowly. "Too many."
He lifted the violet-gun and carried it to a jagged edge of rock; rested it in a crotch of stone, leaning cheek against the wooden stock. He smiled mirthlessly to himself, thinking: I will reduce some of that number, now. His finger pressed the button of the gun and a lavender flame swept from the muzzle toward the assembled horde. Bolt after bolt he fired, carefully, until the ullulating wail of the stricken Darksiders reverberated from the cliffs.
The violet-gun clicked and made odd sounds.
Flane stared at it, wondering. The thought that it might need fuel to work never occurred to him. He looked on the gun as supernatural, and anything as mundane as ammunition for it was as foreign to his mind as the stars.
There might be one more blast left, he reasoned, and gave it to Aevlyn.
It was dark now, and the three moons of Klarn swam slowly into the sky. Red fires dotted the stone plateau before the mesa, where Darksiders squatted or sat, eating. On the mesa, men hastily bolted food and ran back to the entrance, drying their weapons. There was no concerted night attack; there was worse, for soon the arrows began to arch among them. Biting into leg and arm and chest, at random, the steel-tipped shafts scattered the men, which sword and axe could not do. Soon they were all huddled behind the uplifting rocks at the mesa-edge, where the shafts could not follow.
A surprise attack caught a faceful of defending blades, and broke away, as a wave from the seawall.
Dawn found the men of Moornal bloody and weary, but the hot sunlight drove new strength into hack-weary arms and they met each new attack with cries of scorn and defiance. Flane was everywhere: standing for long hours in the pass, his sword singing; encouraging his men by the magical slaughter of his blade, slapping them on backs, encouraging, cajoling, commanding....
All day and all night they made their stand. Baked by the day and frozen by the night, they grew gaunt and haggard, as lean as hunting wolves, and as dangerous. Men did not talk on the mesa now. They lifted lips in silent snarls. They cast dark glances from under lowering brows. Their hands grew used to the hilt of sword and the haft of lance. Some could scarcely unbend their fingers long enough to eat.
Of the lot, Flane looked most wolfish. His black hair drooped untended, loose on his shoulders. His uniform was cut and torn, disclosing blooded skin, brown flesh ripped by axe and sword-edge. But his muscles still rolled as before, and the blade in his hand was a portal to beyond for any who came face to point with it.
Aevlyn slept close to him during the night, tending the wounds received during the day. Under hot sunlight she was always at his call, with water and with cheer, for the men who were most in need of either.
On the next day, the Darksiders withdrew in order, going down the ramp and assembling on the flat plateau. Flane leaned on his sword and stared out over their heads, at a horseman who spurred his mount across the tumbled rocks, lifting him in a jump.
"Ameknik," Flane rasped, spitting. "Now the All-High must indeed be smiling, for the fates could have no worse in store for us. They have come to join the Darksiders."
A man, naked to the waist and bearing a broken lance in his hand as a stabbing spear, laughed gutturally, "Good! I've wanted to take a few of them with me when I went."
Flane smiled mirthlessly, "You'll have your wish, if the water holds out."
He looked around, biting his lips. The axes and swords and arrows of the Darksiders had been busy. Of the original forty who dropped to the mesa, there were but six who stood erect; and of them, one was a woman. Harth lay shorn from shoulder to navel on the rocks below. He had met his hero's death. All of them were wounded. Even Aevlyn had a red rag wrapped about an arm. Flane breathed harshly.
They had made a stand, they had!
Aie!Let the harpers tell of this battle!
Flane glanced at his blade. It was chined and nicked, and hung by a needle of steel to the hilt. Laughing shortly, he tapped it against a lip of rock and watched it drop onto the stones below. He went and drew the blue-hilted sword from the ornate scabbard and shook it in the air.
"By the dead hand that held you, you'll quench your thirst this day, you blue beauty!" he howled.
Themeknikswere pouring onto the rocky plain now, and the Darksiders greeted them with cries of delight. Beside Flane, Aevlyn said bitterly, "Thousands more against us!"
Flane laughed, "The odds even, darling!"
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. Twomeknikspaced at his side.
"Surrender, Flane of Klarn," the blonde said. "We offer safe conduct to you all."
Flane laughed in his face.
"Themeknikswould 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 themekniksscowl 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.
Flane whispered, "Four left. Four and Aevlyn."
With his red left arm, he shoved her behind him, blue-hilted sword deflecting an arrow. Slowly he backed against the sheer gorge. A man dropped at his feet, the arrow still humming in his back. Another man, caught by a thrown spear, slipped over the edge of the gorge, and plunged downward, screaming.
Flane and the man standing beside him looked at each other and chuckled grimly.
"It was a good fight, Flane."
"We stood them off two days and a night," agreed Flane. "They'll put us in their legends, the Darksiders will. They like brave men."
The man laughed, "As a ghost I'll come to their winter campfires and listen to their bards extolling us. It will be a reward, in a way."
Club in hand, the blonde Darksider was leaping toward them, a line of axemen and archers at his back. Before them the Darksiders saw two men, and a girl with hair the color of a sunset. In her white hands she held the violet-gun. The two men were bloody and fierce, unshaven, in rags. Swords glimmered in their hands as they stood waiting. They had fought well, but the time for play was over.
"Take them," cried the club-bearer.
But Flane astounded them by coming in himself, bent low, right arm up and swinging. His blade came and went, and where it had been, the knees of a dying man buckled. Uniform in tatters, brown skin dyed red, he was a miracle of speed and sureness—and slaughter.
Behind him Aevlyn watched, dangerous as a tigress whose kittens are threatened. The violet-gun came up, covering Flane's back.
Men drove in for that unprotected back, daggers lifted. The violet-gun belched once, and then it died. But that once was enough. The lavender fire sizzled and flared, and it ate up the men and their weapons. But Flane had already whirled, and his sword stabbed out, toward the purple flame.
The blade swam in the amethyst mist; glowed brightly, shimmering with opalescent hues. With staring eyes, Flane watched the steel dissipate into drifting powder.
He held half a sword in his hand.
A cry of alarm broke from the lips of the Darksiders. They eyed the half-blade, mouths open in awe. From guard and pommel it coruscated blazing whiteness as the sun caught at the seven globes inside the blue stuff. Like suns those points of whiteness glittered ...like stars!
"The prophecy!" howled the Darksiders.
"He bears the stars in his hand!"
"He holds the key to the Machine!"
The blonde Darksider stared at him, frowning. He let the club fall until its knotted end hit the stone.
"Is it true, Flane of Klarn?" he whispered. "Is that sword the key to the Machine, as the prophecy has said?"
Flane looked at the sword, at the blue hilt with its blazing pinpricks of light, at the diamond-shaped blade that was half a blade, now—
It was the truth!
The diamond blade was key to the Machine! Fool, fool, not to have guessed! Its diamond shape, and the star-formed guard, and the dead body beneath the spaceship: the Keeper, of course! The stars in the hilt for the prophecy, and the blade for the key!
"Yes," he cried hoarsely, "oh, All-Highest, yes!"
The blonde Darksider dropped the club and knelt before Flane, lowering his head. A great rustling was heard, as the other Darksiders knelt with him. Only themekniksdrew aside, muttering.
"You are him for whom the Darksiders have prayed, year in and year out," he said. "You are the saviour who is to come, to unite Darksider and Klarnvan. You bear the key!"
Flane heard Aevlyn sobbing behind him, as he lifted the sword and stared at it. He felt like weeping, too. For the diamond-shaped blade was only half a blade, now. The violet fire had eaten it up. The key to the Machine was in his hand at last, but it was a ruined key!
The Darksider was bowing and saying, "I swear fealty to the bearer of the sun-starred sword, for he shall be my Keeper."
Behind him the others roared out the ancient oath, their voices lifting triumphantly.
"By the grip that plunges home the blade, by the hand that is turned away to ward off evil, by the voice of the Machine, I swear my oath and pledge my faith. I am obedient. I am true. I am his who bears the sword!"
The rolling echo of the oath was swept into silence, but still Flane stared at the broken sword in his hand.
A ruined key!
There was no hope, now!
Flane stood with legs apart and flung his head to the blue sky and howled his laughter like a madman, until froth grew in the corners of his mouth, and tears rolled down his cheeks....
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 themegathonsthat 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 adularfrom 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. Themeknikswere 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 sullenmeknik.
"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 themeknikswith sullen eye, "and any who interferes shall be treated as enemies."
As sullenly, themekniksagreed. They could not do otherwise, for without the Darksiders, they were no match for thedularsof Klarn.
One of them said, "But we cannot vouchsafe a passage through the city itself. Othermekniksmight 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, tirelessmegathons. 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 themekniksof 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. "Themekniksdon'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.
If the machine failed to work—
Flane did not like to think of that.
He stepped forward, lifting the blade.
He thrust it home, into the diamond-shaped opening. The blade clicked in, fitting perfectly.
And nothing happened.
The Machine was truly dead above them. Aevlyn sobbed. She came to stand with him, pressing her arm shoulder to his in comfort as he leaned against the cold metal side of the Machine, hammering his fist against it until the knuckles bled.
Behind them Besl sighed, "Now that is too bad. I shall hate to order thekaatra-tail banners forward, but I have no choice."
Flane lifted his hand, looked down at the torn flesh, at the dark blood staining his flesh. Aevlyn was whispering to him but he did not hear. He was deaf to everything, at that moment.
A hand patted his arm sadly, and then the old man from Moornal turned on his heel and went out of the Temple, bowed and broken. With him went Besl. In the quadrangle before the Temple they came to a stop and stared at each other. The big Darksider saw tears furrowing the cheeks of the old man.
"I had thought to see a new world, Besl. The old world come to life again. Gaiety and laughter, play and sunshine. I thought Flane was the one the prophecy told of, with his foreign blood and his blue sword. I would have staked my neck on it."
"Yes," grunted Besl. "So too would I."
"War," groaned the old man. "There will be nothing left of Klarn. Nothing, except a few wandering tribes. The city-states will go. Darksider and Klarnvan will eat each other up."
Besl nodded glumly.
Heavily they strode to the red Dragon Gate. Swinging into their saddles, they swung their horses' heads around, and cantered into the night.
From the Temple balcony that overlooked the city, Flane and Aevlyn watched them. Like toys they seemed, rider and mount blending motion to infinite grace. They saw Besl and the old man lift their right arms, salute; saw them take separate paths as they rode on.
"Each goes to summon his people to war," Flane said heavily.
Aevlyn leaned her cheek against his bare, scarred arm.
"Failure!" Flane rasped harshly, with a bitter laugh. "I've failed all right. Now will there be a war, and nothing but war. Thedularsof Klarn and Moornal and Yeelya against the Darksiders and themekniks. Few will survive."
Aevlyn turned him slowly, traced the lines of his cheeks and mouth with quivering fingertips. Two tears glistened beneath her lashes as she struggled to smile.
"We may still make a new world," she whispered. "It is not too late."
"When those riders reach their armies, a wave of steel and fire will rise over Klarn."
Aevlyn rubbed her face against his throat. She whispered, "I love you, Flane. Together we may bring order out of chaos. Somehow. You are still my Keeper."
"Listen, darling," she went on, raising her glowing face to his. "I swear fealty to the bearer of the sun-starred sword, for he shall be my Keeper. By the grip that plunges home the blade, by the hand that is turned away, by the—"
She broke off alarmed.
Her brown eyes sought Flane's face, read it—saw hope struggling to rise through bitterness. His green eyes danced. His lips grew slack. He hugged her to him; kissed lips, and cheeks and chin.
"That's it! That'sit!" he shouted.
He leaped for the Temple interior, and Aevlyn had to run to keep up with him. Half-laughing and half-crying, she sobbed, "What is it, Flane?"
"The way the sword goes home! I was a fool not to have realized it."
"You're going to try the Machine again, with the sword? But it doesn't work! You saw that."
Flane laughed, "No harm to try once more, is there?" He came before the Machine and picked up the sword where he had dropped it in his despair. To the star-friezes in the wall he came and held out the sword to Aevlyn.
"In holding the hilt of a sword in combat, you usually grasp it with the ends of the fingers toward you, as in a parry intierce. Now suppose I turn the hand away, like this, so that the fingertips are away from me, and the back of my hand is toward me. By the grip that plunges home the blade, by the hand that isturned away—"
With the back of his hand toward him, Flane slammed in the sword.
The five tiny stars imbedded in the star-guard began to glow weirdly in their blue transparent envelope. Dully they shone at first, then grew more brilliant until they blazed. Like tiny suns they twinkled, fitted over the star-shaped frieze in the wall of the Machine. Flane stared at them.
He knew, suddenly, and laughed aloud.
"It isn't the blade that does it," he cried in his delight. "There is no key—not a key such as we know. The Machine operates via those lights in the star-shaped guard of the sword, Aevlyn. They must be bits of that white powder stored in the prism. They are solar energy! Look how they shine in the Machine!"
They shimmered magically inside the blue stuff, glowing and pulsating with white fire.
Aevlyn cried out, a hand lifted, pointing. The lights were going on, all over Klarn.
One by one they came into being, glimmering fitfully as long-unused filaments surged with flooded power. Whitely they shone, then grew bright and still brighter. A pale halo of reflection lifted from street and house and rooftop, bathing the city in its dim aura.
From the houses came the cries and screams of men and women. The screams deepened, grew into a roar, a bellow of sheer, unbelievable joy, of incredulous happiness. Flane and Aevlyn heard the triumphal peal of it, the hope become reality in its tones. They shivered in delight, laughing.
Flane drew her, an arm about her lissome waist, out with him onto the balcony. Beneath them the city was aflame with brilliance.
Aevlyn whispered, "You turned another failure into your biggest success, Flane. You made the Machine work. If you hadn't—" she shuddered and crept closer in his arms. Her voice was dreamy as she went on, "Now your word will be law on all Klarn. The Darksiders under Besl will see to that. You are their champion. Thedularswill be so happy to have their lights and heat again that they will acknowledge you, too. And themekniks—well, they are heavily outnumbered, and when they see what the machine will do for them, they'll agree. Their power will fade as night when the lights went on."
Dawn was breaking all over Klarn.