The destruction was appalling. Bren felt his throat closing in despair. Scores of the Maharal were wounded. Their wagons were shattered. Their bodies had been left to lie broken where they fell. His people stumbled through the ruins, searching for any who lived. Those they did find they killed, ending their suffering.

There had been a battle here. Armoured bodies, crumpled like parchment lay among his fallen. Their tabards bore the emblem of Ganter. The king had become involved.

Bren heard a groan. One of the bodies stood. Kolek. Kolek saw Bren the moment he regained consciousness and ran sobbing to Bren’s arms.

“You’re alive! All is not lost! Did we win? Where are my golems? Did any survive?”

Bren gasped. He had injured his left arm fighting Rebeka’s abominations. He blinked the tears from his eyes and clutched Kolek harder. There would be time for his own pain soon enough, “They live, though none can travel. They are broken and need your care. But leave the golems for a moment. I have many questions as well. What do you recall? What happened here?”

Merea, who had been lingering nearby came over to them, “It was the demon. His name is Glove. I’m sorry Bren. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I captured him—he surrendered. Had he not become exhausted, I think he would have slain every one of us.”

Rebeka’s betrayal. Tsamen’s scouts. Por’s death. Fleysh’s dreams.

“Glove,” Bren spat, “It has always been Glove. Our vengeance has been misplaced from the start. Take me to him so I can curse his name.”

Glove was sitting on a cart which listed to one side. It had been used as a barricade, losing a wheel in the process. Glove’s hands were tied together, as were his feet. Surrounding him were five Maharal warriors, each with a spear resting against his neck or abdomen.

His white blond hair was smeared with dirt, as was his face. His black suit hung about him in tatters. Deep scratches marred every surface of his body visible beneath the tatters. He didn’t look like a demon. He didn’t even look like the exuberant youth who had purchased Rebeka. He looked tired. He was just a man. Ordinary and sad.

And yet five hardened warriors feared him. Beneath his dark eyes were trapped an eon of sorrow and an eternity of regret. Bren expected to see cracks running through his lenses from all the pressure. He nearly wept for Glove, but he knew eyes could lie. The only true judge of a man was their actions.

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“How dare you? How dare you? How?” Rage filled Bren’s mind. He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know what words could possibly hurt Glove as much as Glove had hurt him. He struck Glove across the face.

“How dare you!”

The captive raised his head, revealing split lips and a chipped tooth.

“I have much to answer for, it is true. How dare I lead my own people to their deaths? I am their lord and sworn to defend them. How dare I fail to stop you? You now go to kill a child.”

Bren felt as if Glove had struck him in turn.

“She is not a child. She has two times seven and five years to her name. She broke the vows.

“She broke the vows,” Bren whispered again. She had. All must answer. None were above the law.

“She broke the vows,” Glove repeated, “and I told her to. What will you do with me?”

“It is easier to slay a foe on the field than to murder a bound prisoner.”

Glove’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile, causing a wound on his face to reopen. Fresh blood ran down his cheek and dripped off his chin, “Nonetheless, you should kill me. Every day I live the lies your people tell themselves will grow harder to bear. Every time they look at me they will be reminded of all who were lost and all who were broken by this senseless war. They will remember that pain is your currency, not honour. And what will you do with that pain? You will buy the death of a woman so young she doesn’t even understand the vows she broke.”

Rebeka knew the vows. All the Maharal knew the vows. But… she was so very young. Did he speak the truth? Did she not know? Bren’s voice cracked as he spoke, “Why did you not explain the vows to her?”

There was regret writ on Glove’s face as plain as the tracks of blood, “I believe no vow, nor anything else, is worth a life.”

“What of the lives you ended?”

Glove’s voice wavered, “I ended them so others may live.”

Bren let out a long, weary sigh. Glove was a demon if he believed he could save lives by ending them.

“Kolek, kill him.”

It was a cruel thing to ask of another. Bren would have done it himself if it hadn’t been for his arm. Bren motioned for the other Maharal to turn away. They did not need to see this. He alone would watch Kolek complete the deed. He owed him that much.

Kole took a spear from one of the warriors. He hefted it, testing its weight.

“May you find your way to the sea,” said Kolek. Then he lunged at Glove’s chest, point blurring.

Despite his great speed, Glove was too slow to avoid the thrust, but at the last movement Kolek lost heart and twisted his hand aside. The moment he had been waiting for had come. As the momentum carried the kineser past him Glove leapt to his feet and swung his tied arms into the side of Kolek’s head with all his strength. It bounced back and forth on the kineser’s shoulders and then hung limp, bent at an impossible angle. Kolek collapsed. Lord Glove followed him to the wagon’s bed a moment later, heart bursting with sorrow.

Bren broke before Lord Glove’s eyes. Whatever righteous fury he had still felt was gone, and nothing had taken its place. He stared blankly at Kolek’s body. Lord Glove had won. The golems would die and there would be no one to remake them. Lord Glove closed his eyes, ready for Bren’s judgment.

No spears found him. Lord Glove opened his eyes and blinked away the sudden blur of tears. Bren was before him on his knees, sobbing into the dirt. The other Maharal fell beside him. All wept for the one Lord Glove had slain.