Wind sighed across the desolate waste, stirring the dust-choked air. Nothing moved in the haze of darkness. The village, the fires, even the corpses lying in the earth, all had been swallowed up, plunged into impermeable shadow.
Oliver’s shaking legs gave out beneath him. He fell hard to his knees.
It did not seem possible that a brutal battle had been taking place only seconds before. Everything was deathly silent, and deathly still. A bluish light began to poke searching fingers through the curtain of dust hanging upon the air. Shadowy shapes took form on the ground, backlit by the sleepy morning light.
They were corpses. And there were more of them than there had been.
A low, despairing moan escaped from Oliver. Crownseekers and Trebbons lay together in heaps everywhere, their bodies draped over one another, with limbs poking out like skeletal branches. Many times, it was hard to tell one apart from the other. Death stripped their differences away.