Gabriel didn’t flinch from his duty. He accepted the cheers, and then he rode slowly along the ranks. He felt curiously detached. He knew the butcher’s bill—but he still kept expecting to see men where they were not. Ser John Crayford, Count of Albinkirk, would never again lead the Albinkirk Independent Company. There was no company to lead, and the Captain of Albinkirk was dead. Nell was not by his side, and Kit Foliak would never buy another gold embroidered sword belt. The north Brogat levy was led by a man he’d never met, a northern knight. Lord Gregario was in one of Amicia’s wards, with the Grand Squire in the next bed.

There were thousands gone, and the dead were all about him, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d begin to think that Nicholas Ganfroy was just at his elbow. Or Cuddy, killed in the last of the fighting with the Galles, or Flarch.

Gelfred was so badly wounded that even Amicia despaired for him. It was Sauce who took his salute, and Long Paw who rode by his side as he inspected the green banda at the right of the line—Amy’s Hob was dead, and Will Starling was lost and presumed dead. And more, and their losses were not the worst.

In the white banda the scars showed—a new generation, dead, in a single dragon’s breath. But where Morgon had stood, the company lived—there was Milus, and there George Brewes. And Gonzago D’Avia and young Fitzsimmons. And many men Milus had recruited and he’d never met—Moreans and Occitans, and even some Galles.

And the red banda—luckier. Still decimated, but only just. Ser Michael sat like a rock on his war horse, Attila, and gave him a crisp salute. Men all along the line were cheering.

Some were also coughing.

Gabriel ignored them. He smiled as much as he could, and passed among the men he’d known for five years and more—the ones left alive. Parcival D’Entre Deux Monts. Gavin Hazzart. And there was Wilful Murder, and there, Robin Hasty, and there, still alive, No Head. And beyond, just barely sober, Oak Pew. She coughed hard and spat something in her hand. Daniel Favour. Ser Ranald. Smoke. Adrian Goldsmith. Ser Bescanon. Ser Danved, talking even now, and Ser Bertran, still silent. His squire, Jean, was grinning, and Petite Mouline in a new red arming coat was beaming, brimful of happiness.

He walked his horse to where Wilful Murder sat. “You, and Cully, Tippit, and No Head and Long Paw. And some knights and squires. I guess we still have a company.”

Wilful looked at Tippit, a few files away, and a small smile creased his aging face. “We could use some fucking archers,” he said. “Ones not like some awkward sods I could mention.”

It shouldn’t have mattered.

But they weren’t all dead.