Page 126 of Given to the Black King

He turns toward the wall.

Across the pass, through the battle, he finds me.

I know he can hear my heart.

I lift the pennant again.

Finish it.

His head dips once.

Then he turns back.

The White Horse line breaks before midday.

Some run for the withdrawal lane. Torgan lets them go.

Some throw down weapons. Black-country soldiers take the weapons and move past.

Osk’s levies begin kneeling by whole ranks.

The field changes quickly after that. Fighting becomes counting. Wounded are pulled aside. Surrendered men are marked with white cloth and moved south of the road. Weapons are stacked in groups of fifty.

Osk is dragged to the pass mouth in the afternoon.

Even from the wall, I recognize the ruined arm Torgan broke in the council hall. It hangs badly beneath the armor.

Osk shouts loudly enough for the wall to hear.

“You promised the marches to your own lords. Serath closed our road and you chose a southern woman over the men who bled for you.” He points toward the hold. Toward me. “She made you weak.”

Torgan listens without moving.

Then he looks up at the west wall and back to Osk.

“You sold land you did not own,” he says. “You promised revenue four times. You brought four thousand men and could not count which of them were yours.”

Osk spits at his boots.

Ghenn recovered Torgan’s sword from beneath a fallen horse and has carried it cleaned only of mud, not blood. Torgan takes it from his hand.

“Poor arithmetic,” Torgan says.

One stroke ends it.

Osk’s banner comes down.

Marrek reaches the parapet beside me. “Three companies withdrew. White Horse broke.”

“Yes.”

“You should look pleased.”

“I feel sick.”

Vess comes down from the upper walk at last. “That too.”

Below, Torgan mounts for the ride back to the hold. Blood covers one side of his armor. A lance cut has opened the flesh above his shoulder plate.