"Vawdar! They got him at last. As he was trying to get out the Dragon Gate."
"Good news. Now if we could get the Princess' whelp, Flane!"
The man in the shadows showed his white teeth in a silent snarl of pure hate. His knuckles tensed on the sword-hilt until they threatened to burst the tightened skin.
"The dulars would be leaderless, then. They'd have to obey us, or we'd pull in the Darksiders—let them loot!"
One of the men grumbled, "If we have Vawdar, what use for us to miss the celebration? Why stand guard at the Temple here?"
"The council thinks Flane might try once more to make the Machine work. If he succeeded—well, that would mean that Klarn will spring to life. The Darksiders, though they outnumber us all, will never dare attack. They remember too well the weapons of the Klarnva."
Flane stirred himself, stepped forward into the shadows, stalking toward the temple entrance where the guards talked. There were only two of them, and Flane had a great deal of confidence in his sword-arm, confidence that had been justified again and again.
He leaped from the darkness, his blade a thing of lightning in his hand. The guards came around on their heels, yanking out their weapons, laughing gutturally.
"Flane! We have him, too!" rasped one of them.
"Pig bird!" whispered Flane.