Flames danced over firewood stacked in crisscrossed layers, their alluring movements bringing light and warmth, driving back the darkness and damp chill of the night.
People gathered around the fires, Bruno among them. Though gravely wounded, he had regained enough strength after two full meals to get out of bed and walk slowly with his wife's support.
"Have you eaten?"
"Yes, just now."
"Have you eaten?"
"Yes..."
Simple, unadorned greetings came from every direction. The townspeople of Bich Town and Prince Chris's men all greeted one another warmly.
Yet the townspeople alone dared not look at Bruno. Whenever he turned his gaze toward them, anyone who met his eyes would lower their head in shame or look away.
They had all made the wrong choice.
And most of those who had followed the right path had died.
Supported by his wife, Bruno approached the fire. His timing was uncanny: he arrived just as men dressed in black carried crude wooden stretchers on their shoulders, laying people dressed in white, seemingly asleep, onto the unlit pyres.
Bruno counted them on his fingers. Six handfuls, minus one... twenty-nine people.
It was not a particularly large number of deaths. Around twenty of the men who had charged the spearmen with him had died too. But these men had not died for themselves. They had died on Prince Chris's orders.
Looking at their young, pale faces and tightly closed eyes, Bruno felt a jumble of emotions.
A hand clapped Bruno on the shoulder then, jolting him out of his thoughts.
"Hey, big guy, how are you feeling? Does your chest hurt?"
Bruno turned to see a smiling young man. His skin was fair, and he spoke with a strong Bohemian accent. He was clearly a respectable foreign gentleman.
Bruno was puzzled. When had he