"It was a good fight, Flane."
"We stood them off two days and a night," agreed Flane. "They'll put us in their legends, the Darksiders will. They like brave men."
The man laughed, "As a ghost I'll come to their winter campfires and listen to their bards extolling us. It will be a reward, in a way."
Club in hand, the blonde Darksider was leaping toward them, a line of axemen and archers at his back. Before them the Darksiders saw two men, and a girl with hair the color of a sunset. In her white hands she held the violet-gun. The two men were bloody and fierce, unshaven, in rags. Swords glimmered in their hands as they stood waiting. They had fought well, but the time for play was over.
"Take them," cried the club-bearer.
But Flane astounded them by coming in himself, bent low, right arm up and swinging. His blade came and went, and where it had been, the knees of a dying man buckled. Uniform in tatters, brown skin dyed red, he was a miracle of speed and sureness—and slaughter.
Behind him Aevlyn watched, dangerous as a tigress whose kittens are threatened. The violet-gun came up, covering Flane's back.
Men drove in for that unprotected back, daggers lifted. The violet-gun belched once, and then it died. But that once was enough. The lavender fire sizzled and flared, and it ate up the men and their weapons. But Flane had already whirled, and his sword stabbed out, toward the purple flame.
The blade swam in the amethyst mist; glowed brightly, shimmering with opalescent hues. With staring eyes, Flane watched the steel dissipate into drifting powder.
He held half a sword in his hand.