"Sheer madness!" he bellowed, rising swiftly to his feet. "Now I have listened to you, Flane of Klarn, and I have given you your way. But from now on, it shall be Harth of Moornal who says what we shall do."
Flane's fingers opened and closed. His green eyes flared hotly, and he opened his mouth to snarl fierce words. Then Aevlyn was before him, the perfume of her auburn hair delicate in his nostrils, looking up at him. Her brown eyes begged with his.
Flane sighed, "And what are those orders, Harth?"
"We flee back to Moornal. We raise an army and—"
Flane chuckled, "Idiot! I thought the ship was broken."
"We can bargain with the Darksiders. They may yet give us terms."
Flane took him by the arm and led him to the port window. They had an unobstructed view of the plains from there. They saw the shaggy megathons racing with their bellies to the ground while their riders shook pennoned lances over their heads, charging. A sword blade glowed red in the sun, lifted into the air. A thundering of hooves rocked the ground. Voices bellowed, roared their hate.
"Those are no warriors to give quarter. Not after what we have done to their leaders and their engines of war!" Flane rasped.
He hit Harth across the chest with the back of his hand.
"Man, man! You bear weapons. Do you know how to use them?"