the valley where they had made camp the night before onto green grass
already tramped flat by their passage. Some supply wagons and tents and
fresh water had been caught up in the retreat, but more was strewn over
the ground behind them. The wounded were lined up on hillsides and cared
for as best the physicians could. Many of the wounds were mild, but
there were also many who would not live the night.
The scouts were the first to recover some sense of purpose. The couriers
of the trading houses rode back and forth, reporting the movements of
the Galts now that the battle was finished. They had scoured the field,
caring for their own men and killing the ones Otah had left behind.
Then, with professional efficiency, they had made their camp and
prepared their dinner. It was clear that the Galts considered the
conflict ended. 'T'hey had won. It was over.
As darkness fell, Otah made his way through the camps, stopped at what
cook fires there were. No one greeted him with violence, but he saw
anger in some eyes and sorrow in others. By far the most common
expression was an emptiness and disbelief. When at last he sat on his
cot-set under the spreading limbs of a shade tree in lieu of his tenthe
knew that however many men he had lost on the battlefield, twice as many
would have deserted by morning. Otah laid an arm over his eyes, his body
heavy with exhaustion, but totally unable to sleep.
In the long, dreadful march to this battle, not one man had turned hack.
At the time, it had warmed Otah's heart. Now he wanted them all to flee.
Go back to their wives and their children and their parents. Go hack to
where it was safe and forget this mad attempt to stop the world from
crumbling. Except he couldn't imagine where safety might be. The Dai-kvo
would fall if he hadn't already. The cities of the Khaiem would fall.
Machi would fall. For years, he had had the power to command the death
of Galt. Stone-Made-Soft could have ruined their cities, sunk their
lands below the waves. All of this could have been stopped once, if he
had known and had the will. And now it was too late.
"Most High?"
Otah raised his arm, sat up. Nayiit stood in the shadows of the tree.
Otah knew him by his silhouette.
"Nayiit-kya," Otah said, realizing it was the first he'd seen Liat's son
since the battle. Nayiit hadn't even crossed his mind. He wondered what
that said about him. Nothing good. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. A little bruised on the arm and shoulder, but ... but fine."
In the dim, Otah saw that Nayiit held something before him. A greasy
scent of roast lamb came to him.
"I can't eat," Otah said as the boy came closer. ""Thank you, but ...
give it to the men. Give it to the injured men."
"Your attendant said you didn't eat in the morning either," Nayiit said.
"It won't help them if you collapse. It won't bring them back."
Otah felt a surge of cold anger at the words, but hit back his retort.
He nodded to the edge of the cot.
"Leave it there," he said.
Nayiit hesitated, but then moved forward and placed the bowl on the cot.
Ile stepped back, but he did not walk away. As Otah's eyes adjusted to