A Darksider roared laughter, turning to his companions, gesturing a hairy arm at Flane.
"The hanging one offers peace. We will make peace, after we have wetted our blades in his flesh, and the flesh of all his kind!"
They laughed hoarsely and took turns heaving war-lances at Flane where he hung in the ropes. One of the spears came so close to him he could have reached out and caught it. Flane sighed and lifted the violet-gun. He did not want to slay these men. But he had to. They needed a lesson.
He sighted along the barrel and pressed the button. From the mouth of the gun the lavender flame came with a swoosh and dropped around the outlanders. It lay among them like the overflow of a rainbow, scintillating and glowing. Then it dissipated.
Where the mounted Darksiders had stood and hurled their spears there was only a blotch of darkened ground. Even the long grasses were gone.
"Oww!" howled the thousands who watched with fear stamped upon their faces. "Oww! Here is the magic of the Klarnva come to eat us up!"
Some of them wheeled their mounts to run, but a great fellow whose fair blonde hair spilled to his shoulders, lifted a gnarled club in his hand and rallied them.
"What?" he roared. "Do we flee before one man? Feather me an arrow in his hide so that he will drop that flaming thing he holds. Then we may use it."
Arrows carried farther than did spears. Flane scampered back up the ropes as shafts started to slither in among the cordage. He put a hand on the rail and swung over. Panting, he stood and stared at the horde that raced for them.
"Arrows and spears will never take the ship," he said, "but those war-engines might."