“Let them be.” Tanaros raised one hand. “This day is no fault of theirs.”

“And the Men?” Vorax asked grimly.

“We leave them for Haomane’s Allies to find,” Tanaros said. “And leave a warning. It shall be as his Lordship willed.”

There had been no casualties in their company. A shrewd commander, Tanaros had planned wisely and well. There were wounded, and they were tended in the field. But the dead … it would fall to the wives and daughters of the Staccian traitors to number them. With the aid of the Fjel, they piled the dead, headless body upon headless body. It made a considerable heap, all told. Tanaros set Krolgun to ranging the plains until he found a chunk of granite that would serve as a marker. When it was set in place, Tanaros drew his dagger and used its point to scratch a message in the common tongue on the grey surface.

To Malthus the Counselor, who led these men into betrayal; mark well how they are served by your deeds. Do you assail Satoris the Sower, Third-Born among Shapers, expect no less.

In the day’s dying light, the scratched lines shone pale against the dull grey rock. Behind the stone lay the heaped dead.

“Is it well done?” Tanaros asked Vorax.

“It is.” The Staccian’s voice rumbled deep in his chest. His gilded armor, kindled to mellow brightness by the setting sun, was splashed with blood. He spared Tanaros a heavy glance. “Do you think it will dissuade them?”

Tanaros shook his head. “No,” he said gently. “I do not.”

“So be it.” Vorax gave a slight shrug, as if to adjust a weight upon his shoulders, then lifted his chin. His bearded profile was silhouetted against the dying sun. “Our task is finished!” he bellowed. “Let us leave this place!”

Tanaros, swinging into the saddle, did not gainsay him; he merely raised one hand to indicate his agreement, signifying to Men and Fjel alike to make ready to leave. There was time, still. The long, slanting rays of the setting sun would allow them leagues before they rested.

The plains of Curonan rang with thunder as they departed.

Behind them, the heaped dead kept their silence.

THE GREEN GRASS OF NEHERINACH, still damp with the night’s rain, sparkled in the afternoon sun. The ivy that covered the burial mounds twined in rich profusion, nourished by the rainfall. Birds flitted among the trees, hunting insects that seemed to have multiplied overnight. Overhead, the sky had cleared to a deep autumnal blue.

It was a lovely day, despite the bones that lay buried here.