In the hall which this circular room overlooked, stood a thousand men.
In lines of fifty across, shoulder to shoulder, the men of Crom Dhu stared unseeingly up at Starke. Here and there a face became shockingly familiar. Old memory cried their names.
"Bron! Clev! Mannt! Aesur!"
The collected decomposition of their bodily fluids raised them, drifted them above the flaggings. Each of them was chained, like Geil.
Geil whispered. "We have made a union with the men of Falga!"
Starke pulled back.
"Falga!"
"In death, all men are equals." He took his time with it. He was in no hurry. Dead bodies under-sea are never in a hurry. They sort of bump and drift and bide their time. "The dead serve those who give them a semblance of life. Tomorrow we march against Crom Dhu."
"You're crazy! Crom Dhu is your home! It's the place of Beudag and Faolan—"
"And—" interrupted the hanging corpse, quietly, "Conan? Eh?" He laughed. A crystal dribble of bubbles ran up from the slack mouth. "Especially Conan. Conan who sank us at Falga...."