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."