The deed was done: the sons of Deshir dead. All hacked and disfigured, were the little ones Caolle had insisted be sent to dispatch the enemy wounded because men for that task could ill be spared; amid whose company Jieret would have been, if not for a bloodpact of friendship. ‘Jieret, they’re gone,’ Arithon gasped out in defeat. ‘We’re too late.’
