Besl grunted his surprise, "I never thought to hear a man of Moornal speak words like that."
The warrior smiled grimly, "I am an old man. When I remember how life was in my youth," he sighed, "I would be friend of any who helped to bring it back."
The old man flung up an arm to his retainer and wheeled his horse beside Flane's stallion. He explained, "I go as Besl does. To bring my people the word. War—or peace."
They rode for many days, across the grasslands and into the desert, skirting that until they came to an ancient rock road.
And how they galloped into a red sunset, knowing that before the three moons rose, they would see the spires of Klarn in the distance. Within an hour they drew rein; clustered together, silent.
Sitting on their saddles on a hill, they all looked at the black towers of Klarn crouching below them, at the domed temple, the flat-roofed houses. The red Dragon Gate seemed covered with blood in the last rays of the sun.
"We must go unseen into that city," Flane said. "And, as unseen, find the temple of the Machine. There will be guards at the Dragon Gate. Leave them to me."
The beacon lights in the dragons' mouths roared gustily, glared scarlet in the blue darkness where Flane came out of it with a naked dagger in his hand. His rush toppled both guards. Before their writhing mouths could make a sound, his right arm lifted, drove downward twice with slim steel blade.
He straddled the still forms, curving an arm at the others who slipped from saddle to earth and came toward him.