"Clev! And Tlan! And Conan! And Blucc! And Mannt! Standing in the gate,
like wine visions! Swords in their hands!"
Faolan's hand relaxed, then tightened. "Speak their names again, and
speak them slowly. And tell the truth." His skin shivered like that of
a nervous animal. "You said--Clev? Mannt? Blucc?"
"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.