He didn't want to let her go. He had other plans, good plans for
her. He shouted the deal down at Linnl. Linnl nodded back, with much
reluctance.
Rann, in a small silver skiff, headed toward land. She handled the
boat and looked back at Beudag all the while. She passed through the
sea-beasts and touched the shore. She lifted her hand and brought it
smashing down.
Whirling, Starke swung his fist against Beudag's jaw. Her hand was
already striking the blade into her breast. Her head flopped back.
His fist carried through. She fell. The blade clattered. He kicked it
overboard. Then he lifted Beudag. She was warm and good to hold. The
blade had only pricked her breast. A small rivulet of blood ran.
On the shore, Rann vanished upward on the rocks, hurrying to find her
men.
In the harbor the harp music paused. The ships were taken. Their crews
lay filling the decks. Crom Dhu's men stopped fighting as quickly as
they'd started. Some of the bright shining had dulled from the bronze
of their arms and bare torsos. The ships began to sink.
Linnl swam below, looking up at Starke. Starke looked back at him and
nodded at the beach. "Swell. Now, let's go get that she-devil," he said.
* * * * *
Faolan waited on his great stone balcony, overlooking Crom Dhu. Behind
him the fires blazed high and their eating sound of flame on wood
filled the pillared gloom with sound and furious light.
Faolan leaned against the rim, his chest swathed in bandage and healing
ointment, his blind eyes flickering, looking down again and again with
a fixed intensity, his head tilted to listen.
Romna stood beside him, filled and refilled the cup that Faolan
emptied into his thirsty mouth, and told him what happened. Told of
the men pouring out of the sea, and Rann appearing on the rocky shore.
Sometimes Faolan leaned to one side, weakly, toward Romna's words.
Sometimes he twisted to hear the thing itself, the thing that happened
down beyond the Gate of besieged Falga.
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."