Perhaps two thousand troops remained to him, out of opposing armies which had each easily boasted twice that number. Of his personal guard, once numbering more than two hundred, some two score remained. Every man among them bore at least one wound, some minor and a few, no doubt, mortal. To his left waited Capi’ra and her centaurs, who had weathered the storm better than most, and a remnant of Quman soldiers. The winged riders had been hit hard in the field by the heavier numbers of Henry’s army, but they had held their ground. It was largely due to their courage and will that he had saved as many of his troops as he had during that initial disastrous retreat when Henry’s forces had overpowered him in the early part of the battle. Of the rest of his noble brethren who had marched with him from Wendar and the marchlands, he had only two surviving commanders: Lord Wichman and Captain Istvan, the tlngrian. Lord Druthmar was lost on the field, although no man living had seen him fall, and he had long since lost track of the rest of his captains and lords, who might still be huddling in the forest or lying among the dead.

Henry’s army formed up to his right: Duchess Liutgard and her cavalry out of Fesse, Duke Burchard and his Avarians together with his daughter Wendilgard’s remaining men, and others from Saony and the duchies of Varre. The terrible storm and the blast of burning wind had hit Henry’s army as hard as his own.

Henry’s army no longer.

Henry’s corpse lay fixed over Fest’s saddle. Sanglant held the reins.

“Your Majesty.” Hathui bowed before him. “What now?”

“Where is Zuangua?” he asked, surveying the scene. “I see no Ashioi among our number.”

“They did not follow us back this way, my lord prince …” Lewenhardt corrected himself. “Your Majesty.” Like the others, the young archer was filthy, smeared with ash and dirt and blood. Ash pattered down, the sound of its steady rain audible even through the many noises of the army creaking into place, men weeping, men talking, horses in distress, a few dogs barking, and wagon wheels squeaking on the fine layer of ash and grit. “They went off into the trees toward the sea, along the old track they were following before. I don’t know where they’ve gone.”

“I do,” Sanglant said. “They’ve abandoned us and gone home, for I’m thinking that their homeland must surely have returned from its long exile.” It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think of Liath struggling among the living or lost to death. “Hathui, if we build a fire, can you seek Liath through the flames?”

“I can try, Your Majesty.”

He nodded. She took two soldiers and trudged through the pall into the forest, where charcoal would be easy to gather. The trio passed a group of exhausted men stumbling out of the trees. The ash so covered every least thing that it was impossible to tell what lord or lady these soldiers had served before the night’s cataclysm.