But now Haral was moving too, booting his great blue hwalon dragon into the screaming throng, clawing and slashing and trampling. A force ray struck him a hammer blow between the shoulders, but its impact broke on the heavy copronium armor and he paid it no heed. His light-lance blazed—again; again. A Pervod fell. A Malya writhed back in his death throes.
Then the hwalon was surging against the fence that bounded the arena. The blue man roared, "Kyla—!" And, to the crowd: "Back! Back—! Stand back or die!"
The wave of bodies broke. The milling mass gave way.
Savagely, Haral slashed at the cables with his lance-beam.
Snapping like tight-drawn strings, they parted. Already, beyond, the girl-priestess Kyla was running up beside him. Sweeping low in the saddle, he caught her arm and lifted her bodily to a place in front of him astride the hwalon.
But if the crowd, the rabble, was falling back, Sark's raiders now were forming.
Again Haral spurred the hwalon—driving it forward, straight at the mutant chieftain.
"You—Sark! Call off your pack if you want to live!" he cried.
He leveled the light-lance, like a helium hammer to drive home his words.