Ituralde found himself laughing. “Now? The Dragon sends help now?” He stumbled, then sat down, staring up at the burning sky. He was laughing, and he could not stop. Soon tears began streaking down his cheeks.

Yes, there was sunlight up there.

Ituralde had regained some composure by the time the troops led him into a well-defended sector of the city. The smoke here was much less thick. Supposedly, al’Thor’s troops—led by Davram Bashere—had reclaimed most of Maradon. What was left of it. They’d been putting out the fires.

It was so odd to see troops with shiny armor, neat uniforms, clean faces. They’d swept in with large numbers of Asha’man and Aes Sedai, and an army that—for now—had been enough to drive the Shadowspawn back to the hillside fortifications above the river. Al’Thor’s men led him to a tall building inside the city. With the palace burned out, mostly destroyed, it looked like they’d picked this building as a command center.

Ituralde had been fighting a draining war for weeks now. Al’Thor’s troops seemed almost too clean. His men had been dying while these men washed and slept and dined on hot food?

Stop it, he told himself, entering the building. It was far too easy to blame others when a battle went wrong. It wasn’t the fault of these men that their lives had been easier than his recently.

He labored up the stairs, wishing they’d let him be. A good night’s sleep, a wash, and then he could meet with Bashere. But no, that wouldn’t do. The battle wasn’t over, and al’Thor’s men would need information. It was just that his mind was failing him, working very slowly.

He reached the top floor and followed Bashere’s soldiers into a room to the right. Bashere stood there, wearing a burnished breastplate without the matching helmet, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out the window. He wore one of those overly large Saldaean mustaches and a pair of olive trousers stuffed into knee-high boots.

Bashere turned and started. “Light! You look like death itself, man!” He turned to the soldiers. “He should be in the Healer’s tent! Someone fetch an Asha’man!”

“I’m all right,” Ituralde said, forcing sternness into his voice. “I look worse than I feel, I’d warrant.”

The soldiers hesitated, looking to Bashere. “Well,” the man said, “at least get him a chair and something to wipe his face with. You poor fellow; we should have been here days ago.”

Outside, Ituralde could hear the sounds of distant battle. Bashere had chosen a tall building, one from which he could survey the fighting. The soldiers brought a chair, and—for all his wish to show a strong face to a fellow general—Ituralde sat with a sigh.

He looked down, and was amazed to see how dirty his hands were, as though he’d been cleaning a hearth. No doubt his face was soot-covered, streaked with sweat, and there was likely still dried blood on it. His clothing was ragged from the blast that had destroyed the wall, not to mention a hastily bandaged cut on his arm.

“Your defense of this city was nothing short of stunning, Lord Ituralde,” Bashere said. There was a formality to his tone—Saldaea and Arad Doman were not enemies, but two strong nations could not share a border without periods of animosity. “The number of Trollocs dead compared to the number of men you had…and with a gap that large in the wall…Let me say that I’m impressed.” Bashere’s tone implied that such praise was not easily given.

“What of Yoeli?” Ituralde asked.

Bashere’s expression grew grim. “My men found a small band defending his corpse. He died bravely, though I was surprised to find him in command and Torkumen—a distant cousin of mine, the presumed leader of the city—locked in his rooms, and abandoned, where the Trollocs could have gotten him.”

“Yoeli was a good man,” Ituralde said stiffly. “Among the bravest I’ve had the honor of knowing. He saved my life, brought my men into the city against Torkumen’s orders. It’s a burning shame to lose him. A burning shame. Without Yoeli, Maradon wouldn’t stand right now.”

“It hardly stands anyway,” Bashere said somberly.

Ituralde hesitated. He’s uncle to the Queen—this city is probably his home.

The two looked at one another, like old wolves, leaders of rival packs. Stepping softly. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ituralde said.

“The city stands as well as it does,” Bashere said, “because of you. I’m not angry, man. I’m saddened, but not angry. And I’ll take your word on Yoeli. To be frank, I’ve never liked Torkumen. For now, I’ve left him in the room where we found him—still alive, thankfully—though I’ll hear thunder from the Queen for what’s been done to him. She’s always been fond of him. Bah! She normally has better judgment.”

Bashere nodded to the side when he spoke of Torkumen, and—with a start—Ituralde realized that he recognized this building. This was Torkumen’s home, where Yoeli had brought Ituralde on his first day in the city. It made sense to choose this building as a command post—it was close enough to the northern wall to have a good view of the outside, but far enough away from the blast to have survived, unlike the Council Hall.

Well, it would have served Torkumen right if the Trollocs had gotten him. Ituralde sat back, closing his eyes, as Bashere consulted with his officers. Bashere was capable, that much was obvious. Very quickly he’d swept the city clean; once the Trollocs had realized that there was a larger force to fight, they’d abandoned the city. Ituralde could feel pride that, in part, his tenacity was what had made them so quick to run.

Ituralde continued to listen. Most of Bashere’s troops had come into the city through gateways, after sending in one scout to find safe places to make them. Fighting in the streets wouldn’t work for him as it had Ituralde; the hit-and-hide tactic had been devoted to doing as much damage as possible before getting killed. It was a losing tactic.

The Trollocs had pulled back into the fortifications, but they wouldn’t stay there for long. As he sat with closed eyes, struggling to stay awake, Ituralde heard Bashere and his captains come to the same dire conclusion Ituralde had. Maradon was lost. The Shadowspawn would wait for night, then swarm in again.

After all this, they’d just flee? After Yoeli had died holding the city? After Rajabi had been killed by a Draghkar? After Ankaer and Rossin had fallen during the skirmishes inside the walls? After all the bloodshed, they finally saw help arrive, only to ha