Romna's harp lay untouched. He didn't play it. He didn't need to. From below, a great echoing of harps, more liquid than his, like a waterfall drenched the city, making the fog sob down red tears. "Are those harps?" cried Faolan. "Yes, harps!" "What was that?" Faolan listened, breathing harshly, clutching for support. "A skirmish," said Romna. "Who won?" "_We_ won." "And _that_?" Faolan's blind eyes tried to see until they watered. "The enemy falling back from the Gate!" "And that sound, and that sound!" Faolan went on and on, feverishly, turning this way and that, the lines of his face agonized and attentive to each eddy and current and change of tide. The rhythm of swords through fog and body was a complicated music whose themes he must recognize. "Another fell! I heard him cry. And another of Rann's men!" "Yes," said Romna. "But why do our warriors fight so quietly? I've heard nothing from their lips. So quiet." Romna scowled. "Quiet. Yes--quiet." "And where did they come from? All our men are in the city?" "Aye." Romna shifted. He hesitated, squinting. He rubbed his bulldog jaw. "Except those that died at--Falga." Faolan stood there a moment. Then he rapped his empty cup. "More wine, bard. More wine." He turned to the battle again. "Oh, gods, if I could see it, if I could only see it!" Below, a ringing crash. A silence. A shouting, a pouring of noise. "The Gate!" Faolan was stricken with fear. "We've lost! My sword!" "Stay, Faolan!" Romna laughed. Then he sighed. It was a sigh that did not believe. "In the name of ten thousand mighty gods. Would that I were blind now, or could see better." Faolan's hand caught, held him. "What _is_ it? Tell!" "Clev! And Tlan! And Conan! And Blucc! And Mannt! Standing in the gate, like wine visions! Swords in their hands!" Faolan's hand relaxed, then tightened. "Speak their names again, and speak them slowly. And tell the truth." His skin shivered like that of a nervous animal. "You said--Clev? Mannt? Blucc?" "And Tlan! And Conan! Back from Falga. They've opened the Gate and the battle's won. It's over, Faolan. Crom Dhu will sleep tonight." Faolan let him go. A sob broke from his lips. "I will get drunk. Drunker than ever in my life. Gloriously drunk. Gods, but if I could have seen it. Been in it. Tell me again of it, Romna...." * * * * * Faolan sat in the great hall, on his carved high-seat, waiting. The pad of sandals on stone, outside, the jangle of chains. A door flung wide, red fog sluiced in, and in the sluice, people walking. Faolan started up. "Clev? Mannt? Aesur!" Starke came forward into the firelight. He pressed his right hand to the open mouth of the wound on his thigh. "No, Faolan. Myself and two others." "Beudag?" "Yes." And Beudag came wearily to him. Faolan stared. "Who's the other? It walks light. It's a woman." Starke nodded. "Rann."