"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."