"Yes," said the girl in answer to Flane's quick questions. "From Moornal. We, too, have felt the bite of want without the Machine to feed us. We are desperate."
The last man fell in front of Flane. He whirled and raced toward the blue-coated men who were fighting at the alley's entrance.
"To the gate!" he shouted, and broke the ring of mekniks and was in the clear, his redly-dripping blade like the darting tongue of a swamp-snake.
Flane fought like a man gone mad. His feet danced the incartata, even as his bare left hand swept aside point and blade; with lunge and caricado he played his blade in the torchlight, engaging the mekniks. They cursed, but in their breath was the fright of grim death. These men had seen Flane fight before; they knew his reputation, and the magnificent steel of his sword. They broke slowly, but when they finally did, they ran.
The girl was staring at Flane with dark moons for eyes, standing solitary under the stone lintel of the gate. He shot toward her, put out an arm and swept her up against him, racing beyond the gate.
The hooves of the megathons were stamping on the stone causeway as they came into the open. Flane saw Vawdar already high in an ornate saddle, gesturing. A horse reared against a moon, fore-hooves pawing wildly. A Moornalian shouted something, swinging his mount's head toward the gate.
But Flane only saw and heard these things dimly. For the girl that was in the crook of his arm, pressed soft against him, was working a strange magic on him. He saw her face framed by the wild red hair, and the dark, mysterious eyes, and the generous mouth. Under moonlight she was enchantment come to life.
He bent and kissed her.
Dimly, he realized that he was mad to stand kissing this girl while men shouted and horses whinnied, but he put the thought from him.
The storm broke, then.