The king let loose a terrible roar of rage. It seemed to him as though a hot bar of iron had been thrust through his forehead. In an instant he reached the spot where Biterulve lay and sent the hjjk’s head flying across the field with one swift stroke. An instant later Athimin was blurting useless apologies and explanations into his ear, and unhesitatingly Salaman, turning on him the full force of the fury that possessed him, cut him down too with the stroke of his backswing, slashing him across his chest, deep through fur and flesh and bone.

“Father — ?” Athimin murmured thickly, and fell at his feet.

Salaman stared. Biterulve lay to his left, Athimin at his right. His mind was unable to absorb the sight. His soul throbbed with unanswerable torment.

What have I done? What have I done?

Everywhere about him the battle raged; and the king stood silent and still, purged in one stunning instant of all madness and bloodlust. To his ears came the sounds of sobbing wounded warriors and the moans of the dying and the savage cries of those who still lived and fought, and it was all incomprehensible to him, that he should be here in this place at this time, with two of his sons dead on the ground before him, and phantoms and monsters dancing all about, and huge-eyed shrieking insect-creatures waving swords in his face. Why? For what?

Madness. Waste.

He stood frozen, bewildered, lost in pain.

Then he felt a searing flash of pain of a different sort as a hjjk weapon went lancing through the fleshy part of his arm. It was astonishing, the agony. Sudden hot tears stung his eyes. He blinked in confusion. A heavy mist shrouded his soul. For a moment, under the shock of his wound, the years rolled away and he thought that he was the ambitious young warrior again, nearly as clever as Hresh, whose scheme it was to build a great city and a dynasty and an empire. But if that was so, why was he in this old stiff body, why did he hurt like this, why was he bleeding? Ah. The hjjks! Yes, the hjjks were attacking their little settlement. Already Harruel had fallen. Everything looked hopeless. But there was no choice but to keep on fighting — to keep on fighting—

The mist parted and his mind cleared. Biterulve and Athimin lay before him on the ground and he was about to die himself. And there came to him with complete clarity an awareness of the futility of his life, the years spent in building a wall, in hating a distant and alien enemy who might better have simply been ignored.

He turned and saw the gleaming yellow-and-black creature studying him gravely, as though it had never seen a man of the People before. It was preparing to strike again.

“Go ahead,” Salaman said. “What does it matter?”

“Father! Get back!”

Chham, that was. Salaman laughed. He pointed to his two fallen sons. “Do you see?” he said. “Biterulve was fighting in the front line. And then Athimin — Athimin—”

He felt himself being pushed aside. A sword cleaved the air in front of him. The hjjk fell back. Chham’s face was close up against his own, now. The same face as his: it was like looking into a mirror that reflected back through time.

“Father, you’ve been wounded.”

“Biterulve — Athimin—”

“Here — let me help you—”

“Biterulve—”

Thu-Kimnibol said, “What? Salaman here? And his army?”

“What’s left of them,” said Esperasagiot. “It’s a fearful sight, sir. You’d best ride out to meet them. They hardly seem to have the strength to come the rest of the way to us.”

“Can this be some sort of trick?” Nialli Apuilana asked. “Does he hate us so much that he means to draw us out of our camp and attack us?”

Esperasagiot laughed. “No, lady, there’s no hatred left in him. If you saw them, you’d know. They’re a beaten bunch. It’s a wonder any of them made it here alive.”

“How far are they?” Thu-Kimnibol asked.

“Half an hour’s ride.”

“Get my xlendi ready. You, Dumanka, Kartafirain to accompany me, and ten warriors.”

“Shall I go also?” Nialli Apuilana asked.

Thu-Kimnibol glanced at her. “You ought to stay with your father. They tell me he’s very weak this morning. One of us should be with him if the end comes.”

“Yes,” she said softly, and turned away.

What remained of the army of the City of Yissou had made camp, more or less, beside a small stream in the open country a little way north of Thu-Kimnibol’s encampment. Esperasagiot had not exaggerated: it was a fearful sight. Only a few hundred warriors, of the great horde that had set forth from Yissou, were there, and every one of them seemed to bear wounds. They were sprawled here and there like a scattering of cast-off garments on the ground, with three ragged tents behind them. As Thu-Kimnibol approached, a grim-faced man whom he recognized as Salaman’s son Chham came limping out to greet him.

“A sad and sorry reunion this is, Prince Thu-Kimnibol. It shames me to come before you like this.”

Thu-Kimnibol sought for words and did not find any. After a moment he reached down and embraced the other in silence, doing it gingerly, for fear of opening some wound.

“Can we do anything for you?” he asked.

“Healers. Medicines. Food. What we need most of all is rest. We’ve been in retreat for — I couldn’t tell you how long. A week, two weeks? We kept no count.”

“I’m saddened to see how badly things have gone for you.”

Chham managed a momentary flare of vigor. “They went well enough at first. We beat them again and again. We killed them without mercy. My father fought like a god. Nothing could stand before his attack. But then—” He looked away. “Then the bug-folk used tricks against us. Wonderstone illusions, magical fantasies, things out of dreams. You’ll see: they’ll come at you the same way, when you next encounter them.”

“So there was a battle of dreams. And a great defeat.”

“Yes. A very great defeat.”

“And your father the king?”

Chham jerked his hand over his shoulder, toward the largest of the tents. “He lives. But not so as you’d know him. My brother Athimin was killed, and Biterulve also.”

“Ah. Biterulve too!”

“And my father was gravely wounded. But also he’s changed within, very much changed. You’ll see. We escaped by mere luck. A sudden windstorm came up. The air was full of sand. No way for the hjjks to see where we were. We crept away unnoticed. And here we are, Prince Thu-Kimnibol. Here we are.”

“Where is the king?”

“Come: I’ll take you to him.”

The withered, feeble man who lay on the pallet within the tent was not much like the Salaman that Thu-Kimnibol had known. His white fur was matted and dull. In places it had fallen out completely. His eyes too were dull, those wide-set gray eyes that had pierced once like augers. Bandages swathed his upper body, which seemed shrunken and frail. He didn’t appear to notice as Thu-Kimnibol entered. A thin old woman whom Thu-Kimnibol recognized as the chief offering-woman of the City of Yissou sat beside him, and holy talismans were piled up all around him.

“Is he awake?” Thu-Kimnibol whispered.

“He’s like this all the time.” Chham stepped forward. “Father, Prince Thu-Kimnibol has come.”

“Thu-Kimnibol?” A faint papery whisper. “Who?”

“Harruel’s son,” Thu-Kimnibol said quietly.

“Ah. Harruel’s boy. Samnibolon, that’s his name. Does he call himself something else now? Where is he? Tell him to come nearer.”

Thu-Kimnibol looked down at him. He could hardly bear to meet that burned-out gaze.

Salaman smiled. In the same faint voice he said, “And how is your father, boy? The good king, the great warrior Harruel?”

“My father is long dead, cousin,” said Thu-Kimnibol gently.

“Ah. Ah, so he is.” A flicker of brightness came into Salaman’s eyes for a moment, and he tried to sit up. “They beat us, did Chham tell you? I left two sons on the field, and thousands of others. They cut us to bits. No more than we deserved, that’s the truth. What a foolishness it was, making war on them, marching like idiots into their own land! It was madness and nothing but madness. I see that now. And perhaps you do too, Samnibolon. Eh? Eh?”