"Are you mad?" whispered Harth, eyes round. "We number a few score on the ship. Can we stand before the Darksiders in battle?"
"Can't you see? We have to. If we fail, then there will be none to mourn us, for the Darksiders and the mekniks will sweep over the cities of the Klarn as a sandstorm sweeps the desert! We can't stop to reckon consequences. It is all or nothing. We must toss the dice—and clean our weapons!"
Aevlyn stood by his side, red mouth curving into a tiny smile.
"He asks us to go with him and taste death, Harth," she whispered. "We have no chance, and yet—and yet, I vote to go with him."
Harth shrugged, "What use for me to speak? If the hereditary princess of the Moornalian Klarnva says we fight, then we fight."
There were tears in Aevlyn's eyes as she looked at Flane.
She whispered, "If only we had a chance!"
III
For five days and nights, the magniship crept through the mountains. Over jagged peak and snow-draped hump they floated swiftly. At its rails stood keen-eyed men who strained their sight peering across the barren plains beyond, and fingered shining weapons. Occasionally, they ran wet tongues around dry lips, for the mark of death lay strong upon them.