At the other campfires, a few soldiers crouched over the flames to tend the stewpots. The workmen helped other riflemen pass out winter garments and raise tents. Beyond question, more fires were needed. For the moment, however, Elgart was satisfied. He looked for the King.

Near one edge of the clearing, the bodyguards stood near an isolated tent. No doubt they had put King Bifalt to bed there. So far from the fires, he would be cold despite his blankets. But he would not be seen until he was ready to emerge. Elgart approved.

For his own sake, he collected firewood from the pile that General Klamath had provided, took a brand from one of the other fires, and started a fire of his own a few paces from the King’s tent. When he had it burning well, he settled down to warm his chilled bones and wait.

Almost at once, four soldiers joined him. He did not wave them off. But when three more came, he had to say something. In a pleasant voice, he advised them to leave room for the Prince.

Bitterly, one of them grumbled, “We will go when he comes.”

Elgart shrugged to show that he did not object.

Before long, Prince Jaspid left what he had been doing. His hands and breastplate wore smears of blood, but he seemed unaware of them. At once, he went to the woodpile, filled his arms with logs and twigs, and built two more campfires. When they were alight, he approached Elgart.

Curtly, he told the riflemen, “I must speak with Elgart alone.”

They looked around. Seeing the new fires, they struggled to their feet. Some of them bowed as they left.

When they were gone, Prince Jaspid stood for a moment, as upright as an icon, gazing around the camp. Then he sat down across the flames from Elgart.

Elgart had always enjoyed the openness of Jaspid’s countenance. Everything that the Prince felt was reflected there: his angers, his frustrations, his enthusiasms. Elgart could almost read his thoughts.

Elgart reminded himself to be careful. The Prince had been hurt. That was obvious. But the scarred man could only guess at what it might be. The beating that Jaspid had received from Lylin? No. That kind of punishment was like a feast to a fighter with Prince Jaspid’s skill and good nature. And there was this to consider. Jaspid’s wits were sharp enough, but their horizons were narrow. Any man who dreamed of fighting alone against overwhelming numbers was not entirely sane.

Softly, Elgart asked, “How are our wounded?”

Jaspid grimaced. “Some will live. Two will not. Others need more care. For the moment, we have done what we can.”

“And the sentries are in place, Highness?”

“They are,” replied the Prince. Then he snorted, “Hells, Elgart. They should rest. We will not need them.”

Elgart raised an eyebrow. “No?”