So the invasion he had feared so long had happened at last, and no one had bothered to summon him! And Koshmar had simply opened the city to them — had handed the place away!

The stink of it had risen to Harruel’s nostrils as he sat glowering by himself in the forked tree on the sawtooth ridge that was his sentry-post. Dark furies were flickering in his soul, and his eyes were blind with rage. He stared into the dense underbrush of the mountain that loomed over him and he saw nothing at all. But then came that stink, that hideous reek of corruption and decay; and he looked back and saw shaggy red monsters shambling into the city through the southern gate, with Helmet People riding two by two on their backs.

Who would have expected the attack to come from the south? Who would have thought that the three mechanical guardians that the sapphire-eyes had left by the gateway of the pillars would simply step aside, and let these creatures enter?

That is the dung of them I smell, Harruel thought. That is the loathsome scent of their droppings, borne to me by the wind.

He rushed down the mountainside, spear in hand, hungry for war.

The road spiraled down and down, and on each turn of the descent he had a better view of what was happening below. A whole army of the strangers had come in: he could see the helmets glittering in the afternoon sun. And nearly the entire tribe, from the look of things, had gone out to meet them. There was Koshmar, there was Torlyri, there was Hresh. And most of the others, too, gathered in little knots. Koshmar had one of her war-masks on, but there was no war. They were talking.

Talking!

Look, there were two Helmet Men, perhaps the chieftains, standing with Koshmar and Hresh. A parley with the enemy, and the enemy had his war-beasts inside the gate! Was Koshmar surrendering without a blow? That must be it, Harruel realized. Koshmar is giving the city away. She is making no attempt to expel the intruders, but simply handing us over into slavery.

He would have thought better of her. There was the stuff of a warrior in Koshmar. Why this cowardice, then? Why this easy submission? She must be under the influence of Hresh, Harruel decided. He’s no fighter, that boy. And he’s so sly that he can wrap even Koshmar around his little finger.

With heavy strides Harruel took the last turns of the road and descended into the great boulevard of the gateway. They had all seen him now; they were pointing, muttering. Swiftly he strode into their midst.

“What is this?” he asked. “What are you all doing? How has the enemy managed to enter our city?”

“There is no enemy here,” Koshmar said quietly.

“No enemy? No enemy?” Harruel glared at the nearest of the Helmet People, the two old ones standing behind Koshmar. Their hard little red eyes were bleak and shifty. One of them had the look of a king about him — cold, haughty. The other was very tall — gods, was he tall! Harruel realized that for the first time in his life he was looking at someone taller than himself. But the withered, parched old body of the Helmet Man was as slight as a water-strider’s. One good breeze would break him in half. Harruel was tempted to strike both of them dead with two quick blows of his spear, the haughty one first, then the frail one. But the voice within him that attempted to keep him from rash deeds spoke to him now, warning him that that was madness, that he must not act without some deeper knowledge of the situation.

He put his face close to those of the two gaunt old Helmet Men, who were studying him with what looked like a mixture of arrogance and curiosity.

“Who are you two?” Harruel bellowed. “What do you want here?”

Koshmar said, “Step back, Harruel. There’s no need for this blustering.”

“I demand to know—”

“Make no demands on me,” Koshmar said. “I rule in this place, and you follow. Give ground, Harruel. These are the Beng folk, and they come in peace.”

“So you think,” said Harruel.

Rage still gripped him. He was nearly overwhelmed by it. His skin felt hot, his eyes throbbed, his fur thickened with sweat. He could not bear this intrusion by strangers. In anguish he looked toward those who stood nearby, toward Hresh, toward Torlyri, toward Sachkor—

Sachkor?

What was Sachkor doing here? He had vanished an age ago.

“You,” Harruel said. “Where have you come from? And why are you in the midst of this parley of leaders, as though you too are someone important now?”

“I brought the Helmet People here,” Sachkor declared loftily. There was an insolent glare in his eyes that was altogether new. He seemed like another person, nothing at all like the one Harruel remembered. “I went off to find them, and lived with them, and learned to speak their tongue. And led them to Vengiboneeza to trade with us, and to live in peace with us.”

Harruel was so astounded by what Sachkor had said and by the way he had said it that the words of his reply clotted in his throat. He longed to seize Sachkor’s grinning head between his hands and crush it like a ripe fruit. But he held himself back. He stood frozen. He made coarse rasping sounds, like a beast, for a moment; and then finally managed to say, “You led them here? You helped our enemies enter the city? I knew you were a fool, boy, but I never thought you were so—”

“Sachkor!” a new voice cried, a woman’s voice.

Kreun’s voice.

She came running up the street, breathless, stumbling now and then on the cracked places in the ancient paving-stones. There was a general stir. The other tribesfolk cleared a path for her, and she ran straight to Sachkor, embracing him with a vigor that nearly sent both of them crashing into Harruel.

Harruel, scowling, stepped back a pace or two. The sweet musk of her assailed his lungs. He had seen little of Kreun since that day when he had encountered her as he descended from the mountain after the night of rain, and he was not pleased to see her now. She could bring only trouble. During these many weeks of Sachkor’s absence from the tribe she had lurked like a broken thing in shady corners of the settlement, keeping apart, saying little to anyone, as though Harruel had worked some dark change in her spirit by forcing her that day.

Now she had eyes only for Sachkor. She held tight to him, sobbing, laughing, whispering words of endearment. They were behaving like mates who had been long separated, and not simply two young people who had played a little at coupling.

“They tried to get me to believe you were gone forever,” Kreun muttered, pressing her face close against Sachkor’s slender chest. “They said you had wandered off somewhere outside the city, or fallen from the mountain, and would never return. But I knew you’d come back, Sachkor! And now here you are.”

“Kreun — oh, Kreun, how I missed you!”

She gave him a wide-eyed look, all adoration. Harruel, watching, found it sickening and absurd. “Is it true that you discovered the Helmet People, and brought them here, Sachkor?” she asked.

“I found them, yes. I learned to speak with them. I led them to—”

“This is very touching,” Harruel broke in. “But there are matters of the tribe to deal with just now. Move away, girl. All this babbling simply wastes our time.”

“You!” Kreun cried, whirling around toward him without relinquishing her hold on Sachkor.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sachkor, as the girl began to weep and tremble. “What troubles you this way, Kreun?”

“Harruel — Harruel—” she sobbed.

“What about Harruel?”

She was shivering. Her teeth clacked and her words were thick and indistinct. “He — he — Harruel — on the mountain path — he — he made me—”

“The girl’s gone crazy,” Harruel shouted, angrily trying to wave Kreun aside.

Koshmar now came close, and Torlyri too, both of them looking perturbed. Harruel felt anger, and beneath it a deep stab of shame. This scene was becoming a disaster. Unbidden, the image of Kreun on that other day rose to his mind, the girl face down on the moist ground, her taut rump upturned and moving wantonly from side to side as she struggled in his grasp, her sensing-organ thrashing about wildly—