A dull blue flash, some fifteen hundred yards distant, caught his eye then as it echoed off the valley walls. For a brief instant, out of the corner of his eye, he had seen black shapes moving about. He raised his arm in anticipation . . .
"Once more . . . just once more . . .
"There!"
Calculating the directions and distances instantly, he conveyed the information to those below with a series of curt hand-gestures.
There was a maddening pause as the catapults were stressed for distance and aligned . . .
There was a dull, percussive sound as the flammable matter in the catapults flared garishly to life. A single heartbeat later, with a searing, ripping sound, the burning matter was hurled in acrid arcs through the darkness, blinding all who witnessed their passage to the passing of the night . . .
All Tran could see was light; dull, greasy, reddish-yellow light, and brilliant smears of blue that left him flash-blind. One! Two! Three . . .
The third exploded as a spray of burning debris that illuminated frantic running shapes . . .
Four-
"Got him!"
For a long moment, Tran wondered that he felt a sharp pang of pity for the dead Warlock. And for the rest of his life, he would never forget that feeling, and the moment at which it had occurred.