He was big, nearly seven feet, and muscled like a draft horse. But his body, naked above a gold-bossed leather kilt, was lithe and quick as a greyhound in spite of its weight. His face was square, strong-boned, weathered, and still young. It was a face that had laughed a lot once, and liked wine and pretty girls. It had forgotten those things now, except maybe the wine. It was drawn and cruel with pain, a look as of something in a cage. Starke had seen that look before, in the Luna blocks. There was a thick white scar across the man's forehead. Under it his blue eyes were sunken and dark behind half-closed lids. The man was blind. Outside, in the distance, men screamed and died. Starke had been increasingly aware of a soreness and stricture around his neck. He raised a hand, careful not to rustle the straw. His fingers found a long tangled beard, felt under it, and touched a band of metal. Starke's new body wore a collar, like a vicious dog. There was a chain attached to the collar. Starke couldn't find any fastening. The business had been welded on for keeps. His body didn't seem to have liked it much. The neck was galled and chafed. The blood began to crawl up hot into Starke's head. He'd worn chains before. He didn't like them. Especially around the neck. A door opened suddenly at the far end of the hall. Fog and red daylight spilled in across the black stone floor. A man came in. He was big, half naked, blond, and bloody. His long blade trailed harshly on the flags. His chest was laid open to the bone and he held the wound together with his free hand. "Word from Beudag," he said. "They've driven us back into the city, but so far we're holding the Gate." No one spoke. The little man nodded his white head. The man with the slashed chest turned and went out again, closing the door. A peculiar change came over Starke at the mention of the name Beudag. He had never heard it before, but it hung in his mind like a spear point, barbed with strange emotion. He couldn't identify the feeling, but it brushed the blind man aside. The hot simple hatred cooled. Starke relaxed in a sort of icy quiet, deceptively calm as a sleeping cobra. He didn't question this. He waited, for Beudag. The blind man struck his hands down suddenly on the table and stood up. "Romna," he said, "give me my sword." The little man looked at him. He had milk-blue eyes and a face like a friendly bulldog. He said, "Don't be a fool, Faolan." Faolan said softly, "Damn you. Give me my sword." Men were dying outside the hall, and not dying silently. Faolan's skin was greasy with sweat. He made a sudden, darting grab toward Romna. Romna dodged him. There were tears in his pale eyes. He said brutally, "You'd only be in the way. Sit down." "I can find the point," Faolan said, "to fall on it." Romna's voice went up to a harsh scream. "Shut up. Shut up and sit down."