King Bifalt had done well in many things, but he had made a mistake when he had made Klamath his General. Klimith’s son would have served his King better as an ordinary rifleman, a man who could do what he was told because he was not expected to give those commands himself.

Fortunately, First Captain Hegels was younger. He had a lean man’s resilient toughness and the severity to demand obedience. And Captain Rowt was younger still. His endurance reminded Klamath of the man Klimith had once been.

“This is bad enough.” Klamath wanted to sound like a General. Instead, he spoke in an unsteady whisper. “It will get worse.”

Hegels and Rowt said nothing. Decisions were the General’s burden, not theirs.

“Tell the men,” croaked Klamath. “And the Magisters. Eat everything they have. Get warm.” He could smell the stench of burning oilcloth and leather. “Then put them to work.”

The First Captain chewed his silence. After a moment, Captain Rowt asked hesitantly, “Work, sir? What can they do?”

A few soldiers had already given the army’s remaining grain and fodder to the horses. Hegels had seen to that.

Klamath wavered on his feet. He needed time to find a thought in his head. He had to remember that all of these people were in his care.

Finally, he managed to say, “Horses. The dead ones.” He had no idea how many mounts he had lost. Or how many men. “And the ones that need to be put down. Drag them closer.” He gestured vaguely around him. “They will burn.” If the Decimate of fire could not set them alight, the Decimate of lightning might succeed. “For heat. And meat.”

If dead horses could be made to burn, muscle, bone, and organs, the flames would be visible for leagues. When the sun set, Klamath would have to send out sentries. But not now. Caution could wait a while.

“Then ask Solace.” For a while, Klamath’s mind wandered among his memories of his father. Of visiting Matt and Matta on their sheep farm in the south of Belleger. Of the Bay of Lights. Then he remembered watching the Open Hand die and came back to himself. “Can pestilence treat frostbite?”

Frostbite was not an illness. But it killed healthy flesh. Dead flesh leaked poisons. That was an illness. Perhaps pestilence would save a few lives.

Perhaps the Decimates would be enough.

Trembling in every muscle, Klamath shambled to the nearest fire. When he had absorbed enough heat to warm his breastplate and restore a little sensation to his hands and face, he ate snow to ease his thirst. Then he joined the men who had started trying to drag frozen horses closer.