He picked up the little hand-gun that emitted the burning ray.
He trained it on the Krak's chest, nicked the little button wide open. Such power exploded a human being, instantly converting the moisture in his system to steam.
Klash stood there, impassive. Sean pumped a full round of bullets at the Krak from the high-powered rifle, then hurled himself on the floor to dodge the richocheting bullets. He got up, a rueful grin on his thin lips, and shot assorted poisonous darts through the blowguns.
The poison was sudden death to any earthly thing.
Klash was impassive.
Sean hefted a battle-ax that the Kraks apparently had filched from some museum. He walked up slowly toward Klash, the double-bitted ax swinging heavily in his hand.
Sean took a stance, spat on his palms, and swung the ax, unmindful that he ripped open the wound Ralk had made when he stopped him from moving toward Maureen.
The bright blade gleamed in the yellow light, the muscles, lean and sinewy across Sean's back rippled and tore his tunic across the back. The head of the ax hit Klash waist-high and bounced, flipping Sean to the deck. Klash rocked a little on his feet from the shock. That was all.
Sean, a desperate grin tightening his lips, threw the book at Klash—he tied the hemp rope about his neck and tried to strangle the Krak; he put the crowbar in Klash's mouth, tried to break the jaws; turned the blow torch against his chest. No response.
At long last, after he exhausted almost the complete roster of weapons, Sean looked thoughtfully at the grenade. Then he shook his head.