He turned—and then cursed softly.
Vawdar lay across the neck of his mount. In the moons' light, Flane could see the haft of a dagger distending from the middle of his back. Up and down he bobbed, arms interwoven with the reins to prevent his falling.
With gentle hands Flane drew him down; made him easy on the sands, with cloak at his neck, and a flagon of wine at his lips.
Vawdar whispered, "They got me in front of the gate, just as we were clearing them. Someone threw a dagger."
Flane was bitter. "My fault. Fool, fool! Forgive me, Vawdar!"
The older man chuckled softly, "It is good for Klarn that there is one man who can stop to kiss a wench when men are dying all around him. It bodes high hope for the future, Flane."
But the dark-haired youth would not be soothed. He said things about himself until Vawdar writhed suddenly on the ground, back arched.
"I haven't—much time," the man on the sand whispered.
Flane bent, ear to his mouth.
"The key of the Machine, it—it isn't what—we think. It—"