With an effort, he struggled out of his bedding. He felt unconscionably weak, but he was growing stronger. When he freed himself, he saw that his bodyguards had put him to bed in his clothes. They had only removed his breastplate and weapons. His moccasins were still on his feet. He had not bothered to bring his helm.

The tent’s gloom swirled around him as he sat up; but the moment was brief. Two deep breaths cleared his head.

“Majesty?” asked Jeck again.

Bifalt scanned the tent, found his rifle and satchel of bullets, his saber and dagger beside his bedroll. He coughed for a moment. There was smoke in the air.

Concentrating, he said, “Repeat that.”

“Sub-Commander Hellick is here,” said Jeck again. “You should hear his report.” He hesitated, then added, “And the Open Hand is in flames.”

Hellick? Bifalt was too frail to feel surprise. Instead, he put the subject aside. Somehow, the sub-Commander had reached him to report that the el-Algreb were lost. He would consider what had happened to them later.

The burning of his city he had expected. He knew what it meant. The Great God’s forces were done scavenging. Now Rile took revenge on the Hand for killing hundreds of his men and leaving so little food or water.

Hells.

King Bifalt piled his weapons on his breastplate. Dragging it with him, he crawled to the tent’s opening. Movement and old fury restored a bit of his strength. Still like a man worn down by too many years, too many deaths, he crept out of his tent into the edged cold.

Boy, Malder, and Spliner were there with Jeck. Malder helped the King to his feet. Taking their time, Jeck buckled him into his breastplate while Boy entered the tent to retrieve the heavy cloak. Malder secured the King’s saber and dagger at his waist. A moment later, Boy draped the cloak over Bifalt’s shoulders. In his thick arms, Spliner cradled his monarch’s rifle, ready bullets, and rain-cape.

While his bodyguards prepared him, Bifalt looked around. His people were spread across a clearing deep in the forest. Campfires dotted the dirt and dead grass. Too many tents to bother counting were scattered here and there. Six at some distance from the others probably sheltered the Magisters. King Bifalt assumed that his surviving wounded occupied the cluster of tents near the western edge of the trees. Prince Jaspid stood among them, head held high, chin jutting. Across the camp, he met Bifalt’s gaze but gave no sign that he recognized his brother. Near the Prince, Elgart sat with his head in his bloody hands.

Alone at a separate fire, sub-Commander Hellick sat warming himself. When he saw the King, he rose to his feet, started to approach. Bifalt waved the Amikan back to the fire. He was not ready.