Slowly, Jarl smiled. He knew there was no need for other answer. And words could be such futile, empty things.
Her hand in his, together they crept on through the debris; up through a broken port set high in the side of the ancient hull.
Then they were out at last, into the windswept wastes of Womar's deserts ... stumbling on through the sand and rocks, mile after mile. They had no breath for talk, no time for resting. A pause might bring the primitives down upon them.
Jarl gripped his brace-bar club and prayed.
Then light came dimly, herald to another blazing desert day. But with it, too, rose the lance-sharp outlines of the prows of two great raider ships, ramped amid a wilderness of jutting crags.
Jarl's heart leaped. Quick jubilation surged within him. "Ylana—!"
The girl screamed.
Jarl whirled—club up, fists clenching. "What—?"
But again, there was no need for words, for the girl was pointing back across the endless, dust-deep waste through which they'd come to an ominous moving figure.