Sir Cael Ardent did not answer Jon Hale’s indictment.
The hero turned his back on the granite alcove, his iron greaves splashing heavily through the bloody puddles on the greenheart deck. He did not look at Alden Bram, nor did he look back at the grey wool cloth that covered the courier’s silent face. He drew his greatsword from the timber planks, lifting the two-handed blade in both gauntlets with a slow, mechanical precision, and stepped out onto the northern causeway.
“Where are you going, Cael?” Jon called out after him, his voice rough and raw.
“To the bridge,” the knight replied without turning his head. The words drifted back through the freezing spray, flat, devoid of anger or remorse. “The outer palisade is down. If Ors takes the bridgehead before noon, the post house burns three hours early. That would disrupt our retreat schedule. I have twenty minutes of combat data left to gather.”
He walked away into the churning mist, a lone figure of dented silver and tattered linen, marching steadily toward the roar of three hundred trumpets.
Jon did not watch him disappear. There was work remaining on the sluice platform, the sacred duty owed to the fallen.
