“At once, Majesty.” Boy disappeared. The tent-flap closed, restoring the darkness.

Bifalt’s relief vanished as well. He was too weak to free his trapped arm from the tangle of his bedding, the weight of an extra cloak. Estie’s cry had broken him.

He heard a scream in the distance, a cry of appalling pain.

The tent-flap opened again. Boy crawled into the tent, bringing firelight with him. He had a waterskin. When he reached Bifalt’s head, he slipped one arm under the King’s neck, raised him so that he could drink.

The scream came again. It receded into sobbing.

Bifalt drank because he had no choice. He feared that he was dying.

That scream—

He swallowed quickly so that Boy would not take the waterskin away. Trembling with effort, he put his free hand on Boy’s forearm. His grip was as frail as an old man’s.

He managed to gasp, “That scream.” Then he drank again.

Trying to give comfort, Boy said, “Take as much as you want, Majesty. We have enough.”

He did not think that his King was dying.

When Bifalt was satisfied, Boy put the waterskin aside, lowered Bifalt back into his bedding. “We are in the forest, Majesty,” he murmured. “Six Magisters. Prince Jaspid and Elgart. Most of the riflemen. We found General Klamath’s horses and supplies. We are well.

“But some of your men were injured in the fighting. Cut or stabbed. Shredded by stones like shrapnel.” Boy was indignant. “Those bastard infantrymen swing heavy blades. Two riflemen died. The Prince and Elgart tend the others.

“That scream? One man had a crushed leg. His comrades carried him here. The Prince was forced to sever the limb. Elgart burned the stump with a hot blade.

“The rest live, but they will not fight again.”

The sound of screaming lingered in Bifalt’s ears. The foundations of Belleger’s Fist had been full of it. He had lost men. But Rile’s soldiers had done most of the shrieking. Despite their Great God’s power, they were still human enough to suffer and cry out as they died.

Bifalt clung to the memory of all that pain and death. It hurt him less than Estie’s shout. He was a soldier, familiar with every possible howl and wail of agony. Those sounds were less appalling than the loss of his wife.

When Jeck opened the tent-flap, he let in the grey light of an early dawn.

“Majesty?” asked the bodyguard.

He said more, but Bifalt did not hear him. The King was still finding his way back to himself.

The war was upon him. Finally, he faced a challenge he understood. He knew what was required of him. He did not need to think of Estie.