The old man leaned closer to Wreneck, his own eyes suddenly fierce. ‘He had no choice, you see. You have to see that, don’t you? Tell me that you understand. He had no choice! Nor did the First Son! They are of a kind, mirrors of honour.’ He leaned back and set two soldiers on the ridge and made them face each other. ‘Here, like this. Remember what you see here, Wreneck. No sculpture will render them in this pose. No painter will stroke their likeness on this day. Not paint, I say, nor marble nor bronze. Not thread, not song. No poem to capture this moment. Nothing, my friend, nothing but you and me. Their eyes meet and they accept the other, and now they ride down into battle, to reconcile themselves with failure.’ His voice caught in another ragged sob and he wiped viciously at his tears.

‘Will you cast the bones, milord?’

‘What? No. No need. Cowards and heroes, the wise and the fools, the red mud takes them all. No matter. I once came upon a hare caught in a snare. It fought that trap. It sought to leap away, again and again – and when I knelt there beside it, I saw how its efforts had stripped the skin from its ankle, down to the very bone. And looking into its eyes, I saw something. A truth. Anguish, my friend, is not exclusive to people. Anguish is a language known to, and shared by, all things that live. Battle strips away everything until only anguish remains – even the triumphant cry betrays the echo of what is lost. Relief comes in tears to match any sorrow. The living bemoan their luck, the dying curse theirs. To survive is to stagger away in disbelief, and see before you a life spent in flight from this moment, the memory of this day and others like it. You run, my friend. Every veteran runs, on and on, to their dying day.’ He flattened both hands over his eyes, clawing at his brow. ‘Oh my, who dares face the tragedy of this? The survivors who must live with this… this loss.’

Wreneck watched as the lord, pulling his hands away from his face, began toppling his soldiers, slowly, one by one. Without the cast of the die, without a single triumphant cry. And now Wreneck too was weeping, though he was not sure why.