He saw the mekniks scowl at him. The Darksider said, "We will come and take you!"
"Then come, club-swinger! My sword whispers to me that it wants to look beneath your skin."
The club-bearer waved an arm, and archers trotted forward, to form a circle around him. The Darksider waved at the mesa, crying, "Sweep that spot for me. The time for play has ended!"
Flane went white. This was what he dreaded—a flight of war-arrows to keep the passage clear while the Darksiders attacked. In the press of battle the archers could not fire, for their arrows would fell their own men as well as defenders. But with an arrow storm to clear the way, and then an attack in force—
"Fall back!" he shouted.
The arrows whistled, coming at them. Some broke against rock uprights, some dropped and skidded along the mesa floor. One or two found flesh and dead men fell, to fight no more.
Flane whispered, "Four left. Four and Aevlyn."
With his red left arm, he shoved her behind him, blue-hilted sword deflecting an arrow. Slowly he backed against the sheer gorge. A man dropped at his feet, the arrow still humming in his back. Another man, caught by a thrown spear, slipped over the edge of the gorge, and plunged downward, screaming.
Flane and the man standing beside him looked at each other and chuckled grimly.