Now there were none left, and Flane turned from the rail with a sigh of satisfaction.
He stood stock-still, staring.
The deck of the magniship listed at a peculiar angle. It was difficult to walk on it, for one side was lifted toward the sky, and the other pointed down toward earth. He had been so engrossed in his destruction of the war-engines, that he had not noticed.
The horde roared its triumph.
"She sinks! She sinks! She is coming toward us! Now we shall have the gun!"
Flane went across the deck with flying feet. He caught at a stanchion, swung in through an open door, shouting, "Lift it! Lift her nose."
Aevlyn was pale, watching him beside Harth who stared unseeingly at the man in the doorway.
Aevlyn whispered, "It's no use, Flane! Those rocks they hurled swept away the red magnetic balls on the port side of the ship. We're done for. We can't stay up much longer."
"We can stay up long enough to get to the mountains," Flane rasped, pointing to where the green-and-brown hills rose toward the clouds. "There we can make a stand. The Darksiders can come at us only a few at a time. We can hold out until help comes from Moornal. It is our only hope."
Harth slapped the table with the palm of his hand, violently, so that a quill and an inkbottle bounced a little.