The sun had passed noon when the fighting finally stopped and the last of the enemy were disarmed. Klia had the Plenimaran provision wagons emptied, then gave them to the vanquished commander so he could gather and transport his dead. The wagons were nearly empty to begin with, just a few barrels of salt fish and hard biscuit; the Plenimarans were as badly supplied as they were, if not worse.

Leaving Klia with a sizable guard, Beka, Captain Anri, and Danos went to gather the remaining squadron.

“That was a bloody day.” Anri sighed, looking around. She was as filthy as the others, and there were dark circles under her darker eyes. She was a good friend, too. Years of bitter war had forged a solid bond between them.

“Do we see anything else?” asked Danos, yawning.

They continued on in silence, taking in the carnage. As the battle fever drained away, Beka felt exhaustion creeping into its place, but there was still much to do.

One by one, they found their lieutenants and listened to their reports. Urghazi Turma, which had already taken losses that summer, had lost eleven riders more and Braknil, who’d been lieutenant since Beka’s promotion, was mortally wounded. Sergeant Zir had only three riders left. Most of the others had wounds of some degree.

Klia allowed her exhausted forces to eat what they had, then gave orders to recover the Skalan dead for burning. What was left of Beka’s Red Horse Turma were ordered to guard the ford, sparing them the grim task of dispatching the enemy wounded and speeding on those of their own who were too badly hurt to survive. There was no time to grieve for the fallen.

The field was lit with funeral pyres and rank with the stench of death and burning flesh. The battle had cost Klia nearly half her remaining force, and the Plenimarans far more, but they had the crucial ford.

Klia’s tent stood just upstream near the burned farmhouse, so Beka set off on foot to make her own report. The waxing moon turned the rising mist to a gently roiling silver blanket spreading up from the river.

She used the funeral fires to guide her over the churned ground. The bodies had been cleared in this area, but the smell of death still hung on the damp night air. She was between fires when she heard low voices nearby.

“You see how the queen throws us into the dragon’s maw?” a man was saying. She couldn’t make out who the dark forms were, or recognize the voice. “Sending her own sister out with less than a full squadron!”

“Half sister,” said another.

“And for what?” a third voice scoffed. “Phoria could have rolled in here with her entire force and swept the whoreson bastards out like spiders out of a drain!”