IV
The sun lay like a crimson ball on the horizon. Flooded with its red rays were the waving grass fields, and the riders of the megathons that sped across them. Hooves rose and fell, as the stallions' heads stretched forward, eager for the run.
Flane and Aevlyn rode side by side. There were bandages still on their arms, on Flane's chest and thigh. Behind them thundered Besl, the blonde Darksider, and a dular from Moornal.
The cool wind in his face made Flane grin; made him stare, in sheer gladness at being alive, at the grassy plain, the swollen, crimson sun, the distant blue mountains.
He had not thought to be alive today.
There had been confusion on the mesa after he had laughed. The mekniks were all for throwing him into the gorge, but the Darksiders saw in him the savior of their prophecy, and would not have him touched.
"This is the key to the Machine," Flane informed them, showing them the ruined blade. "The blade is the key."
"The blade is gone," growled a sullen meknik.
"Not all of it. Only the foible of the blade. The forte remains. It may be sufficient to turn the lock. It is worth a try. Speak out—do I go to Klarn with a safe conduct, or do you try throwing me in the gorge?"