Pieces of his former self came back to him. The attention of his bodyguards reminded him of the man he was supposed to be. The wounded were his first responsibility.

Wavering, King Bifalt headed toward his brother. Step by step, his muscles remembered movement. He began to walk more steadily.

Along the way, Boy said, “A Magister wishes to speak with you, Majesty, an Amikan named Glower.”

Conserving himself, the King said, “He can wait.”

Ahead of him, Prince Jaspid had roused Elgart. Together, they came to meet him. In the grey dawn and the firelight, their hands and their breastplates looked wet, dripping with blood.

Despite his body’s coiled ease, Jaspid radiated anger. At his side, Elgart looked simply exhausted.

“Are you recovered, Brother?” demanded the Prince.

King Bifalt spread his hands. “I am what you see.” He had a demand of his own. “The wounded?”

Jaspid scowled. “We did what we could, Majesty. We have two dead. We may lose one more if Elgart did not seal his stump before he lost too much blood. Others died in the Fist. The rest are effectively crippled. We are left with sixty riflemen who can still ride and handle their weapons.”

“We were fortunate, Majesty,” sighed Elgart. “It is scarcely credible. Against all those infantrymen and the fall of the Fist? Sixty men who can ride and fight is an astonishing number.”

The Prince stood rigid in front of Bifalt. “They are not enough. We have ten too badly hurt to fend for themselves. We cannot abandon them, Brother. If we do not leave riflemen to watch over them, they have no hope.”

King Bifalt faced his brother like a man who could not be moved. At this moment, that was his duty. His decisions had cost him forty soldiers and two Magisters. He had to outface his brother’s outrage and helplessness—and his own shame.

“Do what you can,” he said like a snarl. “I have decisions to make. I will speak to everyone when I have made them.”

His plan to ride north and then strike east, searching for the horde of Rile’s third army, seemed like a fool’s dream. He had lost too many men.

Jaspid pulled back. Bitterly, he replied, “As you say, Majesty.” His face showed every kind of distress.

For a moment, Bifalt hung on the edge of weeping. His people had done everything he asked of them, and their only reward would be a demand for more. He had to be better than this.

But he was starting to waver again. He was too weak to think. Over his shoulder, he told Boy, “Some stew, if you have it. Anything hot. I must eat.” Then he turned back to Jaspid and Elgart.

“Clean yourselves. We should look like men who will do what they must when we hear Hellick’s report.”

He expected to learn that all of Suti al-Suri’s warriors were dead.