Adare spent the hour that followed in a kind of horrified trance, watching as the kenarang sent runner after runner into the chaos below, listening as he uttered order after inscrutable order. Hold this street, retreat into this alley, burn that building, charge. Twice he sent soldiers into the fray to do nothing more than wave Annurian flags above their heads. He instructed his archers to light the docks on fire, despite the fact that there was no one on the docks. He even ordered several dozen troops in three different locations to surrender. None of it made any sense, not the insanity below nor il Tornja’s response to it. He was like a madman commanding the troops at random, only there was no madness in those impossibly blank eyes, and despite the Urghul numbers, despite the fury with which they attacked again and again and again, despite the chaos engulfing the Annurian soldiers, he held the horsemen back.

Finally, as the sun began to settle in the sky, the kenarang rose smoothly and unexpectedly to his feet.

“It is finished,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder, suddenly indifferent.

Adare stared at the carnage below. She could see no slackening of the battle, no shift in the violence. Exhausted soldiers heaved their weapons over and over into the flesh of their foes, screaming as they killed and were killed in turn. Il Tornja paid them no mind. Instead, he faced his signalmen and messengers, then bowed.

“You men have done well,” he said as he straightened. “Thanks to you, the day is ours. You are dismissed.”

It took the bowmen and messengers just a few moments to file back into the tower, leaving Adare alone on the roof with Fulton and il Tornja. When the trapdoor had clattered shut behind them, she turned to the general.

“What do you mean, it’s over?” she demanded, voice cracking as she spoke.

“The battle is done. The rest is . . .” He paused. “You have seen a chicken struggle after the head is parted from the body?”

Adare nodded, horrified.

“This is that—a last spasm of blood and emotion. The real work is done.”

She stared. “Where is Long Fist? The Urghul chieftain?”

“Not here.” There was something in his voice, something Adare couldn’t place. Not regret, certainly. Hunger, perhaps. A great hunger held in check. “He refused to take the field.”

“It doesn’t look done to me,” Fulton growled. “Those horsemen are fifty paces from the tower.”

Il Tornja shifted his gaze to the Aedolian. “That is why I am the kenarang and you are a guard.”

“How do you know?” Adare demanded.

He fixed her with that hollow stare and once again she felt that dizzying vertigo, as though she teetered on the very lip of a bottomless well, as though if she fell forward, she would fall forever. Finally, he turned away, gesturing to the far bank.

“How many trees?” he asked.

Adare stared. “What?”