There were men with swords all around them, shouting triumph. Shoulders bumped them, drove them against a horse. Flane heard Vawdar yell, saw him bend from the saddle and stretch an arm toward them.
"I tried to warn you. The mekniks have come in force. Man, move yourself!"
Flane threw the girl high in the air, across a saddle. With the flat of his hand, he slapped the rump of the plunging megathon. Then Flane was leaping, grasping reins with sure hands, his foot feeling for the carven stirrup.
"We'll divide," Flane yelled to a Moornalian. "The mekniks want us most of all!"
They were off in a clatter of hooves striking sparks from the cobblestoned driveway, leaning forward over the necks of the megathons, reins loose. Flane looked at Vawdar, positive that he grunted, but Vawdar waved a hand, and they went on.
For once in his life, Flane was glad that the Machine was dead. If it were alive, the mekniks could have swept their group with guns that would have turned them into drifting powder. But now only a few arrows fell and bounced on the stones behind them.
They were going away from the Moornalians now. Flane saw them, bobbing shadows moving into the night. He flung up an arm, and waved. There was red hair blowing free in the wind, over there, and Flane felt as though he watched his life ebbing from him, staring across at her.
The megathons were swift. Flane thought with surprise that they were even faster than the horses of the Klarn. Then he saw the thin horn protruding up from the forehead of the beast. It was filed to a fine point, and coated with metal. He grinned. This was a fighting megathon, spawned and bred for a special job. He gave the animal its head, and let him run into the night.
After many hours, Flane became aware that Vawdar rode too silently. He himself was full of the flame of the red-haired girl, but Vawdar should be talking, revealing the secret of the key to the Machine.